


Caught in the Grey

by ChronicCombustion



Series: Scars On My Sleeve (For All the World to See) [4]
Category: Persona 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexual Tatsumi Kanji, Body Dysphoria, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Fluid Naoto, Genderfluid Character, Getting Together, Implied Suicide Attempt, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Naoto is MVP, New Relationship, Non-Graphic Violence, Nonbinary Shirogane Naoto, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Proceed with caution, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Souji is a goddamn mess, Suicidal Thoughts, This will get dark, Trans Male Character, Trans Souji Seta, Transphobia, Vomiting, Yosuke is Best Boyfriend, or symbolic, though it's most accidental
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-09-29 17:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 60,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17207471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChronicCombustion/pseuds/ChronicCombustion
Summary: He stands on one end of the red-washed roof beneath a sky of blood and onyx and watches himself watch back from the other side.“I’m fine,” he whispers to the figure across from him.It shakes its head and sobs. “No,” it answers with two voices – layered over top each other in perfect stereo, one low and one high-pitched. It looks at him with eyes the color of sickness, gold and harsh against the pale, flickering silver of its hair.“No, I’m NOT!”(Updates every other week.)





	1. Beauty in the Breakdown

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. Wow. I'm actually doing this. *deep breath*
> 
> Welcome, friends, to the main fic of my Trans!Souji AU - part of the "Scars On My Sleeve (For All the World to See)" universe. This story, the whole AU, is unbelievably important to me; it has been in my head for over two years now and I am both excited and terrified to finally, FINALLY start bringing it to life. I hope you all enjoy the ride with me - as well as the suffering. 
> 
> A couple quick things:  
> To everyone who has read and liked and commented on my P4 fics so far, thank you so much for your support! You're what's kept me going with this series and made it possible for me to start on this beast here. 
> 
> I will try to update every Friday. Keyword being "try."
> 
> THIS [WONDERFUL PERSON](https://perplexedcaffeineconsumer.tumblr.com/) DREW ME [FAN ART!!!!](https://twitter.com/3012Jodi/status/1076702212649185280) It's based off a scene later on in this fic (minor spoilers), but was referenced in 'I Can't Help But Care". PLEASE go check them out, they are a sweetheart and their art is beautiful!
> 
>  _ **WARING! PROCEED WITH CAUTION!**_  
>  This fic is going to be **dark.** Read the tags for full warnings, but there will be heavy themes of depression and gender dysphoria, suicidal thoughts, implied past child abuse and transphobia, and a just a whole lot of heavy stuff. I will put the appropriate warnings before each chapter that has the worst of it, but just know that this is not a light fic despite the happy ending. 
> 
> Bon voyage~

_“So let go, let go, and jump in._  
_Oh well whatcha waitin’ for?_  
_It’s alright,_  
_‘Cause there’s beauty in the breakdown…”_

_– (“Let Go”, Frou Frou)_

**_October_ **

 

“You better have _damn good_ explanation for this!"

Yosuke is livid, incredulous. His voice cracks as he rounds on the girls, asking them how they could have done this, and from somewhere far away, Souji can hear him growing increasingly upset.

He knows that Yosuke has raised his voice in panic and embarrassment, knows that Kanji is nearby, adding his own disbelief to the mix, but everything is… muffled. Distorted. Like he’s hearing it from behind a wall, through a rushing current that’s pounding somewhere inside his head and _can’t breathe!_

_Seta Souji_

It’s there, on the list of names under “Pageant Signups” – in scrawled black letters, clear and bold.

Everything is numb.

He curls freezing fingers around the cuff of his jacket sleeve, absently noting that his hands are shaking. He wants to run, wants to bolt, wants to go find a nice, quiet place to hyperventilate, because he can feel his lungs seizing and his vision blurring and _he. Can’t. BREATHE._

“…isn’t that right, Senpai?”

Souji looks up. Sharp, manic, eyes wide and chest stuttering. He stares at Rise – because that’s who was calling him, right? – and tries to think. He doesn’t know what she said, has no idea how to respond. _Fake it. Don’t crack where they can see. You’re the leader, you’re the leader, you’re the leader…_

Crushing down the weight inside his chest he forces himself to soften his eye contact, to school the line of his shoulders so that he doesn’t look like a cornered animal. He evens out his features until all semblance of expression is gone and only a blank mask remains. Jerkily, puppet-like, he gives the slightest nod of his head and consciously pulls up the corners of his lips into what he hopes is a faint smile. His stomach churns.

Rise crows with delight. “See?! I _told_ you, Yosuke-senpai! Souji-senpai believes in us!”

Oh. Oh god.

“Dude, what the hell?!” Yosuke whips around and gives him a look of utter betrayal, his mouth hanging open and eyes bright with indignation. “Why would you agree to this? Do you just _want_ to get paraded around in drag?!”

He feels sick. He feels _so sick_ and he still can’t _breathe_ and the edges of his vision are starting to go all fuzzy and he didn’t mean to _agree to whatever she just said._

_Oh god oh god oh god oh god_

Something acidic climbs up his throat and burns the back of his tongue.

Yosuke is staring at him and Rise is grinning at him and Chie and Yukiko are sniggering and---

“Y-you’re positive we’ll be pretty?”

“Kanji, not you, too!”

He can’t do this. He can’t do this; even with Yosuke’s blistering gaze now turned towards Kanji, (and _fuck fuck fuck_ even Kanji’s agreeing now!) the room still feels too small, too crowded. He needs to get away. He needs out of this whole situation but he knows he can’t escape because he’s trapped. He’s been roped into doing the _one fucking thing_ he would rather chug bleach than do and there is no way to get out of doing it without making everything _so_ much worse.

The girls would demand a good reason for backing out. Kashiwagi probably wouldn’t even listen, would just dock his grades or something if he skipped. He almost wonders if it would be worth it.

He’d do it anyway if he didn’t think _somebody_ would find a way to do _something_ to punish him for it.

_I can’t breathe!_

Everything is cold. He can’t feel his fingertips as they twist and wrap themselves deeper into his jacket sleeves, nails digging through the fabric to prick at his palms. Is anyone looking at him? He can’t tell. The room dims; a ring of grey static, like the Midnight Channel, fizzles in around the edges of his sight and makes everything around him dull and blurry. His friends are speaking. He doesn’t know to whom. He can’t pick out their voices anymore, can’t make out any words against the thunderous drumming of the river inside his head. It’s too loud, too dark, too cloistering, too _much._

He turns. He doesn’t stop to figure out if anyone is calling after him, following him. He doesn’t care. Through muscle memory alone, he manages to get out the classroom door and into the hallway. He wills his legs to move, to push, to carry him forward in the direction of the nearest bathroom, even if he doesn’t know where he is anymore. The hallway is too long, too crowded, too, too, too, and he _can’t._

He pushes the bathroom door open, body trembling so violently that he barely makes it inside before he’s throwing himself into a stall, to his knees. He feels them connect with the hard tile floor, is aware of the impact, but cannot feel the pain he knows will be there when he comes back down. He doesn’t feel _anything_ but _sick._

He curls over the toilet as if it could offer him salvation and vomits up everything he’s eaten today. Even long after he’s purged his stomach, the roiling is still there; he coughs until the taste of bile and acid sits heavy in his mouth.

The world is finally quiet by the time he’s able to stand again – though whether that’s from the roar in his ears subsiding at last or because the school is starting to empty, he has no idea. He doesn’t care. He washes his hands, his face, his mouth with water from the sink and refuses to look in the mirror as he does. His hands shake so badly that he’s certain there’s puddle on the floor beneath him. _He doesn’t care._ His breathing is still too shallow, too thin, comes too fast. He doesn’t look in the mirror. He doesn’t think.

It’s only after he hears a quiet creak that he even remembers other people still exist. He glances up from his shaking hands – _why is there steam coming from the faucet? Is the water that hot? –_ forces his head sluggishly up and his eyes blearily over until he thinks he can see just the barest hint of hallway beyond the cracked-open door.

“Souji-senpai?” someone calls from outside. The voice is low, blessedly quiet, like deep blue twilight and old velvet. “Are you alright?”

_Naoto._

“I’m fine,” he tries to say. His throat _screams_ at him, raw and papery, like crusted salt. He tries to clear it and winces as the burn nearly makes him choke. “I’m fine,” he says again. It’s weak, scratchy, but louder than before.

Silence.

He wonders if he’d been too quiet, runs his tongue over his lips to try again. He tastes panic and shame.

“Please don’t lie to me, Senpai.”

_Damnit._

Of _course_ , even if Naoto wasn’t a detective they’re still the most observant of the team, the most logical. They’re exactly the kind of friend that wouldn’t be fooled or placated by something as weak as his automatic response. Of course they would notice him leaving, would find him even if he’d somehow wound up on the opposite side of the school building. Of course they would call him out for his obviously bullshit answer.

The door creeps wider open and suddenly there is a swath of blue in the line of the doorway. Naoto swings their head from one side to the other – checking the hall – before stepping further into the bathroom and settling their too-keen gaze upon him.

He looks back down at his hands, watches them turn pink, then red under the scalding water.

Naoto gasps softly. “Oh! Senpai…!” There are footsteps, the sound of the door closing, and then there are hands in his line of sight as Naoto reaches over and turns the water to cold. He still doesn’t feel a thing.

He stands there and lets Naoto keep his hands under the faucet, watching the redness of his skin slowly start to recede.

“I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t look up at them.

There is a pause, a measure of silence before they whisper again. Their voice is calm and level, and he focuses on it rather than the rush of water from the sink, the rush of blood still behind his ears.

“It was only Teddie and Yosuke-senpai that signed us up for the beauty pageant; I tried to tell them that but they had already put your name down as well. I didn’t know…”

Their voice catches slightly, and when he lifts his eyes from his numb fingers he can see them pursing their lips as they stare at their own hands on his wrists.

“I couldn’t stop them. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he whispers back. Because it _is_ okay, even thought it’s absolutely _not;_ he believes Naoto. They’re the newest of the group, but they’re _honest,_ and he knows them well enough by now to know that they’re also the most rational member on the team. They would have agreed to punishing Yosuke for his stunt – he’d like to think they would have stood up for _him._

Naoto shakes their head. “It clearly isn’t.” They look up at him then, the movement of their head so sharp and startling that he finds himself looking up at the same time out of shock and catching their eyes. They stare and he can’t look away.

He holds his breath as Naoto opens their mouth to speak. But then, they don’t. They close their mouth again with a soft _‘click’_ , sighing out their unspoken words through their nose. Their gaze falls back to the mess of hands beneath the stream of water.

“You should see the nurse,” they say instead.

He shakes his head.

No. He absolutely _does not_ want to do that. He’s already going to be poked and prodded enough for the damn pageant, thank you, and at least he can _try_ to keep his friends’ hands on his face and hair and away from the rest of him. The nurse? Not so much.

He tries to say, “I don’t need to”; what comes out instead is a weak, shaky, “I can’t.”

Naoto looks back up at him, their lips pressed into a thin line and their forehead creased in concern. They stare at him for what feels like eons. “...Senpai—“

“Naoto, I _can’t.”_

And the way his voice _breaks,_ the way his vision blurs, he’s sure he’s close to crying. But he can’t, he won’t, not here, not in front of his teammate, not in the middle of the school building where anyone else could walk in at any moment. He pleads with his eyes instead, because if _anyone_ is clever enough to see hidden meaning in someone’s face, it’s _Naoto._

Slowly they nod, and he feels a burst of relief for the first time in far, far too long. He wants to sob.

Naoto sighs and slumps their shoulders, apparently giving in for now. “I understand.” They tilt their head pointedly, searching his face for something he can’t fathom. They must find it, because the ghost of a reassuring smile passes over their features and he feels something inside his chest lift just the tiniest bit. “I _really_ do.”

He should be afraid, he thinks, that Naoto can see through him – even though, out of all of the IT, it was always going to be Naoto that saw him first. He should feel like the floor has been shattered underneath his feet, like he’s falling into blackness _again,_ but no. Not this time.

No one has said anything; no one has spoken the words out loud. It’s Naoto. He’s _safe_ for now.

And he didn’t even have to pull the words from his mouth like shards of broken, bloodied glass. They just _knew._

“I’ll do what I can to make sure they don’t go overboard tomorrow,” Naoto is saying. Their fingers uncoil from his wrists and turn the faucet off. (He thinks he can just barely make out the feel of the air on his freezing skin now.) They sigh again. “Chie-senpai and Yukiko-senpai will likely be all too glad to focus on Yosuke-senpai, but Rise-kun…” They trail off, unspoken horrors hanging thick in the air between their lips like oil.

Souji nods. He can feel the cold of his hands now, the leftover sting from the hot water still burning beneath his skin; the room is less fuzzy, now the lights less dim and his vision clearer. He feels himself slide back into his body – not lock into place, he’s still too shaky, too jittery – like a sheet of colored plastic overlaid across a different one to form a new color only where they touch. He’s _there,_ he’s just not solid yet.

Souji flexes his fingers. They hurt. “I’m in drama club,” he rasps. “I can do most of it myself.”

The look that Naoto gives him is full of pain and sympathy – much more emotion than he’s sure anyone else in their group has ever seen. “Awful, isn’t it? That playing pretend has become so natural for people like us.”

The laugh that tears unexpectedly from his chest sounds more like a sob.

 

\---

 

The next morning dawns like bile against the horizon. Souji watches from the window, barely real as he takes in the sickly yellow of the sun as it rises. A glance at the clock shows he’s been awake for several hours now, unable to stay asleep because of the constant, taunting reminder of what today is; the hummingbird-quick beating of his panicked heart bringing him back to wakefulness any time he managed to doze off from sheer exhaustion.

Numb, nauseous, he drags himself over to the desk and grabs his uniform from where he’d habitually set it out the night before. He feels like nothing, like a wind-up doll as he puts it on. He gathers his things, heads downstairs, passes by the kitchen without even bothering to glance inside. He doesn’t want breakfast right now, doesn’t even want to try and keep his stomach under control long enough to make a bento for later. He stops just long enough to give his little sister a hug.

Nanako asks him if he’s okay.

“I’m fine,” he answers with a strained smile.

 

 

He runs into Yosuke on the way to school, even though Souji’s absently aware that it’s far earlier than Yosuke actually needs to be leaving his house. But it doesn’t matter, so he doesn’t ask. Yosuke looks about as tired as he feels and at first there is silence.

And then Yosuke opens his mouth and starts to _talk._

Yosuke rants about how unfair it is that they have to go through with the pageant, about how it’s totally different for the _girls_ to be up on stage, about how _real men don’t wear dresses, damnit, this is so stupid!_ Yosuke gesticulates as he talks and never once looks over to see the hollowness in Souji’s eyes or to see why Souji hasn’t said a single word to agree with him.

Souji tries and tries to tune his friend out but in the end he feels every word as though it were a splinter of ice burrowing ever deeper into his gut.

Yosuke finally asks him if he’s okay only once the front doors of the school are in sight.

“I’m fine,” he says, and pretends the catch in his voice is a yawn.

 

 

The day stretches and stretches but still seems to go far too quickly and soon he’s being handed a girl’s uniform and a long silver wig done up in a pair of braids. There are stockings, too, and a padded bra stuffed with what looks like socks pinned inside. He takes the uniform and the wig and stifles the burning, sinking, suffocating feeling that spreads throughout his body so that he can make it to the bathroom to change. Rise calls out to him as he walks stiffly into the hall like a man marching to his execution, asking him if he needs help fastening the bra. He keeps walking as if he hadn’t heard her.

He stands in the stall and tries, tries, _tries_ not to hyperventilate, not to give in to the way his vision blackens and his lungs scream and his stomach – still empty from yesterday – lurches and rolls. His heart pounds like he’s been running, like it’s already escaped and is pleading for him to come with it. He barely manages to hook everything together with how badly his hands are shaking – fingers slipping and nearly dropping everything as he slips the bra fasteners into place. He wraps the socks that had been padding it up in his own uniform and doesn’t think about how well the bra actually fits him without them.

He puts the wig on last while still in the stall. He uses his drama club training and feels for the tabs on either side of the wig, pulling on them until they’re next to his temples. He keeps the stall door closed, keeps his back to it and his head down, even though he cannot see the wall of mirrors over the sinks while he hides behind the door. He squeezes his eyes shut as bits of the wig brush across his cheekbones and does not look at the long silvery strands that now frame his face.

The way the skirt swishes around his legs, the way the shirt hugs his chest, the way his hips look fuller, his waist smaller, his hair longer—

He clamps a hand to his mouth as he gags, body heaving to expel his fear and panic, even though his stomach is so empty it cramps. Sweat breaks out over his forehead and he has to blink back the sting of tears behind his eyelids because everything is _wrong wrong WRONG!_

It takes everything he has to lock himself away and call up the bone-deep coldness. He slips into the numbing distance, pulling it over himself like a cloak, and pushes everything away until there is nothing left inside but _nothing._

Gathering up his things, he finally steps out of the stall and breezes past the line of sinks towards the hallway. He watches himself from someplace far away in his own mind as his body looks dead ahead and refuses to even glance at his own reflection in the mirrors.

Naoto is waiting against the wall just outside the classroom when he makes it back. They take a glance at his mask-like face and their expression twists like they can feel every bit of black, oozing _wrongness_ that has filled his veins and settled into his lungs; like they want to cry every tear _for_ him that lurks behind his frosted wall of forced calm.

He hears them whispering to him as he passes, hears them asking _senpai are you okay?_

“I’m fine,” he responds, voice like a worn-out recording on an over-played cassette.

 

 

He doesn’t let Rise do his makeup. He doesn’t let Yukiko or Chie do his makeup either. Thankfully, the latter two have Kanji and Yosuke to focus on to keep them from descending upon him. Rise, though, winks mischievously and waggles a foundation compact in his direction.

He doesn’t want her touching him. Doesn’t want _anyone_ touching him. But he stills just before he can tell her he’ll do it himself because even through the cloak of numbness he knows that to do it himself he’ll have to look in a mirror. His mind stutters, reboots, works his mouth on autopilot and tries again to tell Rise she doesn’t need to help but she isn’t listening. She leans into his personal space with a wide, sweet grin, and he doesn’t want to be upset with her when he knows she’s doing it because of her not-so-subtle crush on him, so he can’t recoil or shove her away like his instincts want to. Luckily his mind and his body are so far removed from one another right now that his knee jerk reaction doesn’t reach his limbs through the void.

He feels the ice encase his heart just a little more solidly and pulls himself further back into his head.

In the end it’s Naoto that winds up doing his makeup. He doesn’t remember them speaking up or shooing Rise away, doesn’t know how he wound up sitting in the far corner of the room with Naoto in front of him like a shield even as they lean in close with a brush.

 _I’m sorry,_ their lips say; he can read the words up close like this but the sound is lost behind the echoing cold.

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t know if he’s human enough to remember how. He just sits there and lets them dust the smallest amount of pale brown shadow onto his eyelids. Someone whistles nearby, one of the girls saying something about the ‘natural look,’ but he catches next to nothing else. He can’t even tell who it was that said it – the voice muted like his head is underwater and he’s drowning.

Naoto sweeps something minty-smelling across his bottom lip; a tube of tinted balm, it looks like, not lipstick, but he doesn’t bother trying to read beyond what passes through his peripherals.

He sees Naoto rest their hand tentatively on his shoulder – he can’t feel it, can’t feel _anything_ – and another pained, worried look paints itself over their features. Any other time he would feel guilty about making one of his friends worry, but right now he’s so hollow that he barely even notices.

Naoto turns over their shoulder, eyes suddenly sharp, and parts their lips as though they’re about to speak at someone, when Chie and Yukiko appear in front of them both with matching expressions of glee.

Chie’s mouth moves, quirking upwards as she gives a stunned Naoto a thumbs-up. Yukiko, however, tilts her head at him, appraising. Her mouth moves as well; a great wall of static noise blocks out her words but her lips shape the letters ‘ _O’_ and _‘K”_ and he absently sees his own head turning to mimic looking in her direction.

“I’m fine,” he feels his body say in his absence.

 

 

It’s over. The pageant is over. Everything is finally, _finally_ over.

He barely even waits until everyone is off the stage before he’s pulling the wig off his head as though it burns him. He tosses it at someone beside him, not caring whom, and immediately grabs for the bag full of his clothes – _his_ clothes – that someone has apparently stashed backstage for him. _(Probably Naoto.)_

The world is a blur around him and he all but runs to the bathroom and slams his shoulder into the door. He’s already kicking off the shoes before he even makes it into the closest stall. The first thing off is the stockings, which he nearly trips over as he tries to yank them from his legs as gently – but quickly – as he can, because he doesn’t want to tear them. He’ll have to return everything in one piece; he doesn’t know whom any of this belongs to. He whips them over top the side of the stall and lets them hang there, reaching for the skirt next and hearing something _‘pop!’_ as he tugs it down almost before it’s completely unfastened. It joins the stockings in a whirl of fabric.

Still in the top, the scarf, the bra, he unzips his duffel bag and starts grabbing at the clothing inside, not even caring what he pulls out first. He separates a pant leg from a jacket sleeve and drops the jacket back into the bag. As he slides his legs into his pants his knees nearly buckle in desperate relief.

_Never again never again never again_

The frigid wall, the cloak of numbness, the _nothing_ inside his head; all of it starts to peel and crack and unravel as his violently shaking hands fumble with his button. It takes him far too long to get them fastened, scraping his knuckles on he teeth of his zipper, but when they’re finally, _finally, FINALLY ON,_ the breath leaves his lungs like he’s been slashed open and he has to lurch forward to brace himself against the wall. He trembles, gulps in lungful after lungful of air like a dying man and it still isn’t enough, still feels too shallow. All the color has left his vision, leaving only blacks and whites and greys behind in the ever-tightening circle of static sparkling at the edges of his eyes. He feels unbalanced, off-kilter; his head spins as he continues to try and fill his chest with enough air to keep him above the line of blind panic.

He wonders just how much adrenaline a human body can handle in a day before serious damage is done.

But he can’t relax yet. There’s still the rest of the girl’s uniform, and then the makeup, and he doesn’t know if he has enough left in him to keep going right now. He’s running on sheer luck – body too sick and anxious, deprived of any kind of fuel beyond adrenaline and well-practiced autopilot since yesterday afternoon. And even then, not by much, since everything had come up again after seeing his name on the sign up sheet. How he’s standing he has no idea; how he’s going to make it home, he doesn’t want to think about.

He wills his body to move, to peel off the remainder of the costume – because he has to think of it that way, it _cannot be anything else –_ and locate the toughest part of his own clothing to put back on. He doesn’t look down as he practically rips off the bra, nearly drops his next item of clothing into the toilet in his haste and rising exhaustion. He only gets stuck for a moment as it rolls up underneath itself, but he’s done this before, so many times, in fact, that detangling himself has become muscle memory by now. He rights the fabric, tugs it down over his torso, runs the palms of his hands down the smoother, flatter surface of his chest.

_Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out. Almost done, almost done._

The shirt takes several minutes to button. He keeps getting the wrong hole, keeps slipping as he tries to push the buttons through only for them to resist. He’s better now that he has pants on, more in his own body than he has been in _hours_ , but he’s still not entirely there, not completely whole again. He won’t be until he can put this entire fucking day behind him and he can’t even start to do that until he can get his _goddamn clothes on, please just button!_

He gives up on the last couple of buttons, letting them hang open; they don’t go low enough to show the flesh-colored fabric beneath, so it doesn’t matter. The rest of the shirt is fastened, though, which is good enough for now. He grabs for his uniform jacket and pulls it on without a hitch. Somehow he manages to get his socks and shoes on without sliding down the wall and cracking his head open on the tiled floor.

He’s stuffing the pageant costume into the bag so he doesn’t have to look at it anymore when he spots the pack of makeup remover wipes tucked into the bottom. He owes Naoto everything, anything; anything they want, he will gladly give them. He will run himself ragged in the TV world to earn as much money as he needs to, if only for this one last kindness that his friend has shown him.

He rips open the pack and feverishly starts to scrub at his face with the first wipe he can get his fingers around. It hurts; even through the numbness still plaguing him and the chasm between his body and his mind he can feel his skin starting to burn. He doesn’t remember if Naoto put foundation on him – he doesn’t think they did – but he scrubs and scrubs and scrubs at his eye makeup, at his cheeks, at his lips, until he can taste copper on his tongue and see stars behind his lids. He grabs another wipe and keeps going. He doesn’t dare step out of the stall until the makeup wipes come away clean.

He washes his face with cold water at the sink, both to clear away the film of makeup remover and to quell the rawness of his skin. He watches the water stream around his freezing hands just like he did yesterday and absolutely does not look up at the mirror.

Somewhere out in the hallway he can hear clock chimes; he counts them to himself long after they’ve stopped.

 

 

He’s almost human again when he reemerges from the bathroom and finds his way back to his friends. Truthfully he wants nothing more than to hug the living daylights out of Naoto and then roll into a ditch somewhere to sleep for a million years. He can’t, though; he knows he has to make an appearance with the rest of the group or even the most oblivious among them will get suspicious. He doesn’t have the energy to think up a lie.

He shuffles his way into the classroom and sinks down into a nearby chair, legs wobbly and threatening to fail him. Once he can focus on something other than keeping himself upright, he takes a moment to properly look around the room. It’s weird seeing it suddenly, (even through the grey veil still clouding the edges of his vision,) since he’s barely registered anything around him for the past two days. He’s exhausted and probably hungry and really just wants to go home, but there’s still that responsible part of him that thinks he should try and rejoin the living and clean up the classroom with his friends. Though, looking harder, it seems like most of the decorations have been taken down already.

Just how much time did he lose?

 _"There_ you are! Damn, I was wondering where you disappeared to.” Yosuke steps over to him, also back in his own clothes, and slumps into the chair adjacent him. There is still makeup on his face, and his hair has a crimp mark where the hair tie had previously been. He looks haggard.

Souji doesn’t say anything I return, only gives his best friend shaky smile that goes nowhere near his eyes; he doesn’t think he can manages human words right now.

Luckily it doesn’t seem like Yosuke notices. Instead, he gives Souji a pitiful look and says, “Duuuuuuude, how’d you get your makeup off? Rise keeps saying she doesn’t have anything because she ‘forgot.’” He snorts sardonically and levels an unamused look over his shoulder at where the girls are snapping pictures of Teddie still in full costume. “’Forgot,’ my _ass,_ ” he grumbles. “Probably forgot on purpose just to make us suffer longer.”

Souji makes a mental note to ask Naoto if they paid for his makeup wipes out of their own pocket, and how much he owes them for it.

He doesn’t answer – again – but he does expend a little of what energy he has left to lean over and unzip his duffle bag. He doesn’t let his eyes focus on anything inside, just feels around until the familiar crinkle of plastic reaches him. Covertly, he taps the pack of remover wipes against Yosuke’s knee.

Yosuke looks down, confused, before taking the pack with barely-contained glee. He fixes Souji with a face-splitting grin. “Oh _man,_ you are the _best,_ Partner!” He hurries to stand, shooting Souji a quick, “be right back,” and nigh on sprinting towards the door. He nearly runs into Kanji as he’s leaving, the other boy apparently just now returning from changing out of his own costume with the dress draped over his arm.

Yosuke actually _grabs_ kanji by the elbow and drags him back out into the hallway with a hushed, “come on!” The two of them disappear around the corner.

It would be funny, Souji thinks; probably _should_ be funny, but the whole situation is some kind of overly-customized personal hell, and he’s about two steps away from saying “screw it” and slinking out the door to make his own escape.

He never gets the chance.

Somewhere, at some point in his life, Souji must have cashed in all of his good luck and used it up forever because its only once Yosuke and Kanji have vanished that he realizes there’s no one left to distract the others. Rise spots him first and, with a bubbly, “Senpai, you’re back!” she hurries over and into his space.

“Look!” she beams, holding her phone out towards him, screen turned where he can see. “I took pictures of all of you!”

He makes the mistake of almost looking – even knowing full well what’s probably on her phone screen, he instinctively turns his gaze and catches sight of long silver braids.

Immediately he freezes, doesn’t let his eyes finish focusing on the image now shoved in his face. He can’t. He’s tried _so hard,_ made _absolutely sure_ that any mirror he passed, any reflective surface, any _window_ for god’s sake, was kept just out of his line of vision. He’s _tried,_ for _two solid days_ to keep from looking at himself, to keep from _thinking,_ and now it’s all about to come unraveled because Rise has photographic evidence of this complete massacre of a day.

He shifts his gaze over to Rise’s face instead, looks just past the edge of her cheek and doesn’t meet her eyes. He thinks he might feel his lips twitch cordially upwards at the corners – autopilot yet again – and thinks he might hear himself say something. It might be, “so I see”; it might be, “please kill me.” He isn’t sure. The room is starting to waver in his vision and the river inside his skull has begun trickling to life.

Whatever it was he said must not have been too bad, because Rise just giggles and leans back on her hip, pulling her phone with her. She grins down at it and starts poking at the screen, likely flipping through her pictures.

He wonders if he could make it to the door before she pulls up another one to show him.

Chie and Yukiko wander over, much more relaxed than Rise had been, and while that part is appreciated it’s rapidly becoming too crowded in the little sliver of classroom he’s found himself trapped in. He lets his mind pull away from his body, giving his friends a fake smile and a nod while he tries anxiously to see if he can spot Naoto anywhere. He can’t pinpoint the exact moment his subconscious started hyper-fixating on them, viewing them as _safe,_ as _shield,_ but he won’t complain. For once there is an anchor, a lifeline, even if Naoto can’t really _do_ much right now; it’s been so long since he’s had any form of hope when his panic surges and rolls, tugging at him like a vicious tide. Even just knowing he wasn’t alone in this cage of people would be enough to ground him.

But Naoto isn’t here. Naoto isn’t here and Yosuke – who could have at least pulled their attention away from him – is off in the bathroom and there’s nothing to keep his heart from quickening in his chest like a frenzied moth.

“Hey could you send me those?” Chie is saying to Rise, blessedly not looking at him for the time being. “I’m gonna lord this over Yosuke’s head for _weeks!”_

Yukiko launches into a laughing fit and the level of static noise in the room ramps up to just shy of _too much._

“You got it! Senpai, do you want me to send some to you, too? I got a _bunch_ of cute pictures of you backstage~”

_No, please no._

He pulls himself back into his own head on a burst of sheer adrenaline, clutching onto his fight or flight moment of sickening clarity to open his mouth and _beg_ her not to---

A whirlwind of blue dress and blonde wig throws itself at him, practically into his lap, and suddenly Teddie is latched around his arm like a vice.

“Ooh ooh! Send one to me, Rise-chan! Send one to me!” He pulls a little yellow Junes-brand phone out of seemingly nowhere and shoves it into Rise’s hand. “I want a bear-utiful one of Sensei!”

Without even seeming to pause for breath, Teddie wraps back around his arm and sighs dreamily. The blonde wig brushes against his face. It feels too much like the silver one had.

_Longer hair, a smaller waist, fuller hips, the swish of a skirt…_

His chest is full of cinders.

Teddie beams up at him. He stares back with wide eyes, only vaguely seeing _._

“You should have won, too, Sensei!” Teddie says – very loudly, right near his ear. “Just think of it! We could have been heartbreakers together, on the hunt for bear-utiful admirers!”

The cinders in his throat climb higher, choking him, burning everything in their path.

Teddie sighs again. “Sensei makes such a pretty girl.”

Everything whites out.

It’s like being dropped into dark, freezing water; his body is paralyzed, rendered immobile in the sharpest, most bone-deep way, with every inch of skin so cold it feels like a thousand shards of ice digging into him and _twisting_. It forces the air from his lungs, suspends it in time so that he cannot draw another breath to replace it. He feels the frigid water seep into his mind, his mouth, his chest, feels the way it drains everything from his body until he is so numb he can’t even call his limbs to shake. There is no sound, no voices – only the muted rush of the water as it claims him and fills his head with silence.

 

 

There are flashes of black and grey in his vision.

From far, far away, he catches a glimpse of himself in the school hallway as he throws himself out into it and against a wall. He sees Yosuke and Kanji, coming casually towards him, sees their faces as he passes, shocked and confused.

He sees the door to the stairwell. He sees the landing halfway down.

He sees Naoto near the bottom, close to the exit to the first floor, heading upwards in his direction. He sees their look of terror as they notice him, the recognition dawning in their eyes, sees them reach out as if to intercept him. He sees himself dodge, sees his body swing itself over the railing and past the last couple of steps, landing wrong and slipping, falling, catching himself with the palms of his hands and using the last of that momentum to fling himself out the door.

He sees the front entrance of the school. He sees the walkway beyond.

He sees nothing after that.

 

 

The world is dark around him as he slowly blinks his eyes open. He is back in his room at his uncle’s house; he can just barely make out the outline of the desk, the couch, the TV in what faint moonlight filters in through the windows behind him. The wall is hard and unforgiving at his back; the floor is cold on his already-cold legs. Vaguely he notes that he is bare from the waist up, the skin of his arms and chest and shoulders all exposed to the chill of the room.

His hands sting and his knees ache. He has no idea what time it is.

“I’m fine,” he whispers to no one. His voice, though weak and raw, echoes like a temple bell in the maddening quiet of his dark, empty bedroom. In what sounds like a dark, empty house.

He licks at his lips, closes his eyes. He leans his head back again and rests it against the wall. “I’m fine.”

His next exhale is wet and trembling, like the dying breath of a drowning victim, pulled from the river only to die with water in his lungs. There is something crusted under the fingernails of his right hand. He touches it with the tip of a finger from his left hand and finds it thick and sticky beneath the first layer. Something smells sweet and coppery. There is a long stripe of stinging pain across the side of his left arm when he shifts it. He doesn’t focus on it.

There is a buzzing noise and a square of light shines from his pants pocket in the perfect outline of his phone. He lolls his head to stare at it until it goes away. It comes back what feels like a few moments later. Again and again, he watches as it blinks until going dark once more.

“I’m fine,” he whispers as the lead in his bones pulls him down to curl up on the floor against the side of the couch.

“I’m fine,” he whispers again as he lets the exhaustion settle across him like a weighted blanket and slips his eyes close.

“I’m fine,” he whispers like a mantra as sleep finally takes him.

His dreams are full of fog and shadowy places that he does not recognize; a crumbling indoor maze with whispering voices, a rooftop surrounded on all sides by impossibly high chain link fence. He stands on one end of the red-washed roof beneath a sky of blood and onyx and watches himself watch back from the other side.

“I’m fine,” he whispers to the figure across from him.

It shakes its head and sobs. “No,” it answers with two voices – layered over top each other in perfect stereo, one low and one high-pitched. It looks at him with eyes the color of sickness, gold and harsh against the pale, flickering silver of its hair.

A wail of anguish rises from their chests, long and loud and keening, and the figure lurches forward to bury its face in its hands.

“No, I’m _NOT!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title is taken from 'The Grey' by Icon For Hire.
> 
> Listen to the playlist on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/qr3jt923f3k6r9qxlt514mopm/playlist/7wqvOlmp9wxe8FT6B9pALQ) or [Youtube.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLo73OgaRqSRHtyrRk4R35il-_3b4supLS)
> 
> Like my work? Wanna geek out with me or buy me a coffee? Come and hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/DaemonSparks) or [tumblr](http://chroniccombustion.tumblr.com/)~


	2. Been a Long Damn Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The light has changed from dingy blue-grey to anxious pink by the time he realigns himself, creeping along the wall to spill down across the floor. There is a twisting sensation low in his stomach, a burning in the back of this throat. He runs his leaden tongue across his gums and they tingle in response. The ache is still there in every limb, echoed by a shaky feeling that makes his world feel like it’s slipping in and out of solidity.
> 
> He flips open his phone with his thumb. 7:19am the screen now reads, as well as a flashing notice from half an hour ago, proclaiming, 1 new message.
> 
> Shirogane-kun: SENPAI PLS CALL ME

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, holy hell you guys, thank you so much!!! I'm immeasurably grateful to everyone who's been leaving me kudos and comments and just, the overall support this series has gotten so far has legit made me tear up more than once. <3 
> 
> Anyway. This wasn't exactly what I had intended for this chapter to be, but hey. Every story has to have a setting-up period and that's what this chapter turned into. Originally there was going to be more stuff happening _before_ chapter 3, but there was so much that needed to happen first and it started getting way too long, so I chopped part of it out and split the chapter in two. So stuff is going to progress a little slower than I had first thought - which might actually be a good thing. (Oh, and because I have no self control, I added three more songs to the playlist last night...)
> 
> Nothing too sad this time. _This_ time~

_“From the beach to the city, I been putting on a face._  
_You’re no stranger to a mask, you ain’t lost or amazed._  
 _I been lost in a maze, been a long damn day,_  
 _I been lost in a maze, been a long damn day…”_

_\- (“Sinking”, Jeremy Zucker)_

**Shirogane-kun:** SOUJI-SENPAI WHERE R U?

 **Shirogane-kun:** R U OK?

 **Shirogane-kun:** PLS RESPOND

 **Shirogane-kun:** SENPAI PLS I AM WORRIED

_4 missed calls from Shirogane-kun_

 

 **Aibo:** bro u ok? wtf happened?

 **Aibo:** no srsly wth? what was that?

 **Aibo:** prtnr we cant find u where did u go?

 **Aibo:** shit the girls pageant is starting we cant leave

 **Aibo:** not funny bro

 **Aibo:** call me back man cmon ur freakin me out

 **Aibo:** souji?

_7 missed calls from Aibo_

           

_14 new messages, 9 missed calls from Kanji-kun, ~*Rise!*~, Amagi Yukiko, Satanaka Chie, TEDDIE_

Souji stares down at the phone in his hand, squinting against the brightness of the screen in the pre-dawn gloom. _5:42am_ , it reads. Fantastic.

He shifts his weight to lean more against the side of the couch rather than the chilly wall and groans involuntarily when his entire body protests. He’s stiff, cold, and his _everything_ is angry with him for sleeping on the floor. His uniform pants are still on from yesterday, though he has no idea just where his shirt and jacket went – or the flesh-colored bit of fabric that he wears underneath. At some point after running home in a blind, dissociative panic he knows he must have pulled them off because he remembers being shirtless before properly passing out, so, theoretically, they must be in the room with him somewhere. He doesn’t have the energy to look.

As long as his pants are still on.

As exhausted as he is, (mentally, physically, emotionally,) he knows he won’t be able to get back to sleep at this rate. He can’t work up the energy to pull out the futon or change into real pajamas, and besides, he’d just have to get right back up for school again soon after. His body aches too much to let him relax anyway.

So Souji sits there, folded over on himself in the corner between the couch and wall, and doesn’t read the slew of missed texts from his worried friends. He can’t; their escalating concern leaves a guilty stone in his stomach on top of the embarrassment he already feels. He knows they’ll be upset with him for not telling them where he is, that he’s okay, and it spikes his anxiety just thinking about it – which just makes it all the more impossible to open the rest of the texts. He’d barely made it through Naoto’s, forced himself to read Yosuke’s, before he’d had to quit.

Something else, though, is the quiet, creeping dread that has nestled into his already-anxious heart. He can’t read the rest, can’t bring himself to respond and ease their worry because he doesn’t know what to _say._ How can he possibly explain to his friends why he bolted like a frightened cat for seemingly no reason? They’d want to know what set him off, why it had caused such a violent reaction, and every reason Souji can think of just leads his brain deeper and deeper down the winding rabbit hole of Things He Doesn’t Want to Talk About.

How is he supposed to tell them what brought about his soul-shattering panic attack without revealing everything else?

Still. If he stays silent for too much longer then he’ll lose the window of opportunity to try and play this whole thing off as something they shouldn’t worry about. He also potentially runs the risk of one of them reporting him missing, or even just straight up going to his uncle. There is no easy way to go about handling this garbage fire of a situation and trying to think of ways to avoid it is only making everything so much worse inside his head.

Souji lolls his head back and watches the encroaching dawn slither through his windows and play across the wall across from him. It’s the only light in the room aside from his phone. Eventually, that, too, goes dark.

 

 

The light has changed from dingy blue-grey to anxious pink by the time he realigns himself, creeping along the wall to spill down across the floor. There is a twisting sensation low in his stomach, a burning in the back of this throat. He runs his leaden tongue across his gums and they tingle in response. The ache is still there in every limb, echoed by a shaky feeling that makes his world feel like it’s slipping in and out of solidity.

He flips open his phone with his thumb. _7:19am_ the screen now reads, as well as a flashing notice from half an hour ago, proclaiming, _1 new message._

 

 **Shirogane-kun:** SENPAI PLS CALL ME

 

He… wants to. Out of all his friends, Naoto would be the safest one to talk to right now. They _know,_ and he wouldn’t have to think up some excuse as to why he fled from school the way he did. It would be… refreshing, he thinks, to finally be honest about a situation like this. (He also shamefully knows that of everyone he still owes an explanation to, he may have frightened Naoto the most. After all they’ve done for him the past two days, he owes them at least this much.)

His thumb only hesitates over the call button for a moment – just one – before he shakily presses it down. The line picks up on the second ring.

_“Senpai! Oh thank god; are you alright? Where are you?’_

Souji winces at the desperation in his friend’s voice. “I’m fi—“ He swallows against the dryness in this throat, hesitant to say “fine,” because he really, probably isn’t. He hasn’t been fine for days. “I’m alive,” he finally settles on. “I woke up at home but I don’t remember getting here.” There’s no point in lying, and it feels good – if only a little – to admit even the tiniest bit of weakness to someone he knows won’t use it against him.

There is a pause on the other end of the line. _“You… ‘woke up’,”_ Naoto slowly repeats. _“How long have you been there?”_

“I don’t know. The whole time, I think.”

Naoto sighs and it sounds like a rush of tension being released. _“Alright. Alright, it’s worrying that you do not remember, but at least you’re safe.”_

There is another pause, a longer one this time, that Souji doesn’t know how to fill. When Naoto finally speaks again, their voice is tiny, quiet, sounding so very young and sad that it damn near wrenches Souji apart.

_“…Senpai, you scared me. I knew something must have happened but...”_

There’s no one there to see it in the dark, but Souji instinctively hangs his head, shame and guilt lashing at his chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Something that sounds suspiciously like a sniffle comes over the line before Naoto vehemently says, _“Don’t apologize. I know what panic can do to the mind, and I suspect you were not in complete control at the time. I just wish I could have helped.”_

“You’ve already done more than enough,” he says, because it’s true.

Naoto doesn’t seem to agree. _“What I have done is paltry compared to what_ needed _to be done. I try not to make deductions about the Team anymore, but I imagine you require a great deal more support right now than a pack of makeup wipes.”_

He doesn’t respond to that. He doesn’t exactly know how he can.

Naoto sighs again, this time sounding more frustrated than relieved. _“I… That was invasive of me, I apologize.”_

“It’s okay.”

_“No, it’s not, but your patience with me is appreciated anyway.”_

They go quiet for a bit, and Souji can hear faint noises in the background – rustling cloth, the creak of leather. He is reminded that it’s early-o-clock on a school day and that Naoto is probably in the middle of getting ready to leave.

 _“Souji-senpai?_ ” they finally say, soft and cautious. If Souji were to have any other siblings beyond Nanako, he thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind having Naoto as family.

“I’m still here,” he answers, and it feels like a drop of warmth. He thinks he might smile if he wasn’t so drained still.

_“Do you… need to talk about it? Whatever it was that happened, I mean.”_

He thinks. Yes, in a way he does, if only to let Naoto in the way they deserve to be. It would be nice to get it off his chest, to have someone understand, but at the same time he doesn’t think he _can._ Telling Naoto – while safe – would also mean reliving the gut-dropping horror of Teddie’s words. Souji has just barely gotten purchase in the real word again, shaky as it is, and he’d rather not have that tentative stability taken away again. So he takes a breath and lets it out slowly through his nose.

“I… probably,” he says, “but I’d rather not think about it anymore.”

Naoto hums. _“I understand. Sometimes it’s better that way.”_

There is more shuffling. Then, _“I’m terrible at this, aren’t I?”_

Souji huffs – a quiet laugh that isn’t exactly a laugh but is closer than he usually gets. “I don’t think so,” he assures them. “You’re _trying;_ that’s more than I’m used to.”

He thinks he probably shouldn’t have said that. He can’t bring himself to dwell on it right now.

A low, displeased sound comes through the earpiece, and Souji can vividly picture the stern furrow of Naoto’s brows, their lips pressed into a thin, stony line. Yeah. He really shouldn’t have said that.

Thankfully they seem to let it go (though he’s pretty sure Naoto never lets _anything_ go and is just filing it away for later,) because the next words he hears from them are, _“Did you sleep at all?”_

“Uhm. A little. I think so, at least.” It certainly wasn’t long or _well,_ but he isn’t going to mention that.

Another low, wordless sound. _“Have you eaten?”_

Oh.

He thinks back to the way his stomach had purged itself the day before last, how he’d been too dead inside to eat breakfast or even pack lunch yesterday. No wonder his body feels weak and shaky, his skull tight behind his eyes.

He swallows. “I… no. Not since… no.”

_“Senpai.”_

“I think… I might need to stay home today,” he whispers sheepishly. He feels like a child facing down the disapproving stare of an older sibling – which throws him a little since Naoto is younger than he is. He can’t tell if it’s comforting or just plain unsettling. Maybe a little bit of both.

_“Do you want me to tell the others you have food poisoning?”_

He startles. “That…” He clears his throat to try and regain himself. He’s surprised by how easily Naoto is able to handle this, how quickly they volunteer to cover for him. He hates that he’s surprised. He thinks Naoto would hate that he’s surprised as well.

“You’d do that?” he whispers, unable to hide the slight tremble of grateful awe.

Naoto’s voice is kind, gentle like warm water on an aching body when they say, _“I’ll tell them whatever you need me to, Senpai, and nothing else.”_

Souji makes a sound that he’s pretty sure is wet and mildly hysterical. “Thank you.”

_“Anytime, Senpai. I mean that truly.”_

He lets out a long, slow breath, careful not to do so directly into the phone, and lets the feeling of something _safe_ and _grateful_ and _happy_ wash over him; like a place to rest when exhaustion peaks, or the warmth of a fire chasing away cold misery. Or, he thinks with a tiny smile, the glowing, sparkling, champagne-fizzy feeling that a bond sends zinging through his veins whenever its rank has risen.

Comfortable quiet reigns as the rank up run its course.

All too soon though, reality returns and through the phone speaker there comes a clock chime from somewhere in the background. Naoto makes a muffled sound as they apparently take their phone away from their ear for a moment.

“Do I need to let you go?” Souji asks when it seems like Naoto can hear him again.

They sigh. _“Possibly. Will you be alright?”_

He pauses. Aside from how shitty he feels due to lack of proper sleep and no food for two days, he feels… lighter. The anxiety from before has calmed somewhat now that he no longer has to drag his protesting body to school and face down his friends. “Yeah,” he says, and it’s nice to find that he means it. “I’ll be alright. I’ll…” he huffs – the faintest hint of a chuckle, “…spend the day recovering, probably.”

Naoto hums again. _“Good, do that.”_ A beat of silence. Then, _“Thank you for calling me, Senpai. If you hadn’t I was planning on coming by your house after school.”_ They make an odd noise that Souji thinks might be an audible expression of discomfort. _“I would have done so yesterday, to be honest, had Kashiwagi-sensei not hauled us all off to change for the beauty pageant.”_

Oh _hell._ He’d forgotten about the second pageant. He winces as he realizes just how awful it must have been for his friends – Naoto especially. “I am so sorry,” he says, his voice a rush of breath. “I shouldn’t have run out on you like that; after everything you did for me, I should have stayed to support you—“

But Naoto cuts him off. _“Senpai, it’s alright. Panic and the mind, remember? Don’t apologize.”_ They make the noise of discomfort again, and Souji thinks he can almost hear the way Naoto’s face scrunches up when they deeply dislike something. _“Obviously I survived, though it was… unpleasant,”_ they say, tone flat and unamused. _“I won.”_

“Oh my god.”

_“Yes, I would like very much for that to never happen again to either of us.”_

There is a muffled voice on Naoto’s end of the line and Souji hears what might be a hand covering the receiver. Naoto says something in return, though Souji doesn’t catch it. A few seconds pass before Naoto returns. _“I’m afraid I have to leave now, Senpai. Would it be alright for me to text you during lunch to check on you?”_

Souji feels the edges of his mouth stretching upwards, just slightly. He can’t remember if he’s ever smiled as much as he has in recent months. “If you want to,” he replies. “I’ll be okay, though; I just need to eat something.”

 _“Please do.”_ A sigh. _“Take care, Senpai.”_

“You, too.”

Naoto makes one last short noise of affirmation before the line disconnects and Souji is left to stare down at the call’s time stamp on his dimly glowing screen. _7:38_. He’ll be late if he wants to try and make it to school.

He isn’t going to.

Looking up at the room around him he is surprised to find the morning light has started to fill it properly – more gold now than blue or pink. It’s brighter than yesterday, when it was a pale, sickly yellow reflecting the way his body felt like lead and his head like poison. He stretches his arms upwards, grunting as several things pop. Maybe today will be better, he thinks; maybe his mind got its fill of blackness over the past 48 hours and will leave him alone today.

Deciding that a good place to start would be finally acknowledging how empty his stomach is, Souji pulls himself to his feet and braces himself against the back of the couch as the waves of dizziness roll over him. He lets them pass, then pushes off the couch, shaky and weak. He’s glad it sounds like no one else is home – he’d hate to try and explain why he was hugging the wall on his way down the stairs. He steels himself, plants his weight on the balls of his feet as best he can, and slowly starts to make his way down towards the kitchen.

He only pauses once for breath at the bottom of the stairs, taking the opportunity to change his newest friend’s name in his phone from “Shirogane-kun” to “Naoto”.

He feels along the bond of the Wheel of Fortune arcana and smiles at the newfound strength glowing back at him.

 

\---

 

Souji expects school the next day to be an awkward affair, and to some degree it is. Thankfully no one outside the IT seemed to really notice his terrified escape two days prior; or, at least, no one outside his friend group says anything. He does, however, catch a few whispers floating around as he passes certain groups of people – whispers that sound suspiciously like they’re about the cross dressing pageant and how “good” he looked on stage, usually from tight clusters of giggling girls or between the odd pair of jittery-looking guys. He does his best not to listen.

The real unease, though, sets in when he slips into his seat in the classroom and Yukiko, Chie, and Yosuke – who is here early for once – all turn to look at him. He tries to give them a reassuring smile but it feels just as forced as it actually is. Yosuke especially seems unconvinced.

Luckily the teacher walks in just as Souji feels the back of his head starting to smoke from how intensely Yosuke is staring, so he’s spared having to face his partner just yet.

Unluckily, this just means that by the time lunch rolls around, Yosuke wastes no time in poking Souji’s shoulder to get him to turn around. Slowly, Souji does so, and fixes his best friend with a shaky half-smile. He’s so tired of his nerves running at full capacity.

“Hey,” he says, a little less steady than he’d like.

Yosuke raises a brow at him. “Hey, yourself. What the hell, man? Why didn’t you text me back?”

Besides them, Yukiko nods in agreement and Chie opens her mouth to join the conversation.

Souji doesn’t wait for her to speak. “Did Naoto tell you what happened?” It’s partially a stalling tactic – something he hates being so good at anymore – and partially to see what they think went down so that he can build a believable story off it. Naoto had messaged him during lunch the day before, as they said they would, and given him a rundown of the excuse they had spun for him, but he doesn’t want to _just_ play off that. Yosuke is too observant for his own good sometimes, and his ego is fragile enough that Souji knows he’ll need to be extra careful when trying to lie his way around his best friend’s suspicion.

It’s Yukiko that answers. “Naoto-kun said you went home because you weren’t feeling well, and that was why you weren’t at school yesterday.” She tilts her head, dark eyes narrowing in concern. “But you disappeared so suddenly! You seemed fine before.”

“Yeah,” Chie exclaims, nodding vigorously. “One minute you were in the classroom with us and the next you were just gone!”

“And tearing down the hallway like the building was on fire. Seriously, bro, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you move that fast.” A flicker of worry passes over Yosuke’s face before it settles back into the oddly pinched look he’s _been_ wearing. He stares at Souji with creased brows and a downturned mouth. “And apparently you just left? You didn’t even stay to see the girls! I woulda thought you’d at least wanna cleanse your eyes after seeing Kanji in a dress.”

Souji feels his face turn stony. When Chie makes a noise of offence and smacks Yosuke in the back of the head, Souji makes no move to intercept.

Instead, he chooses to look at Yukiko when he speaks, as though he’s answering questions in turn. “I _was_ fine for a while.” He has enough to work with, he thinks. Maybe. Naoto has laid the groundwork for him to (hopefully) weasel his way out of this without _too_ many roadblocks. He chooses a middle path between lying (he doesn’t like lying to friends now that he has them) and the truth (because no, no, not in a million years, no) and works the half-truths through a set of carefully constructed loopholes. He’s become far too good at loopholes.

He tugs at his own expression until it resembles something sheepish. His nerves help it look more real. “I made the mistake of not eating anything yesterday because I was nervous.” (Not a lie.) “Naoto actually found me in the bathroom… throwing up stomach acid.” (Also not a lie, as long as he doesn’t tell them _when_ Naoto found him in the bathroom.) He looks away and rubs at a spot just behind his ear. He’s aware that it makes him look embarrassed – which is fine – but it also gives him an excuse not to keep eye contact.

Chie and Yukiko both make sounds of distress, talking at him and over each other in their concern and he thinks he may have managed to fool them. He glances at Yosuke and, yeah, no, that’s not convincement looking back at him.

“So you bolted cuz you had to go throw up?” Yosuke asks, his voice thinly tinted with disbelief.

_Lay it thicker, maybe I can shock him into buying it._

Souji nods. “I’m sorry I worried you,” he says to all of them, but directly _at_ Yosuke to make sure his partner feels special here. He stifles a grimace at how manipulative he has to be – how much of a coward he knows he’s being. He hates this. “I screwed up and made myself sick. By the time I got home I was in such bad shape that all I could do was lay down and pass out. I didn’t even wake up until yesterday morning.”

Again, it’s not technically a lie, even if he more disassociated than “passed out,” and he doesn’t actually remember anything from his panic attack. He’s aware that when the story gets around to the kohai, Rise will likely blame herself for insisting he participate in the pageant. A tiny peek over at Yukiko and Chie’s faces tells him that they’re feeling a little guilty, too. He hates this. He _hates_ it.

And he especially hates the tiny little piece of him that whispers, “ _good.”_

Trying to swallow the guilt in his own gut, Souji places his hands on his knees and bows low in his seat. It’s the last card he can play without despising himself entirely, and the final touch to what he hopes is a believable enough story.

Chie says something to him that Souji only barely listens to, while Yukiko puts a hand to her mouth and gives him a look like a sad puppy as he slowly sits up. Yosuke, however, seems unsure. His mouth is open slightly like he wants to say something, and he looks torn between worry and confusion.

_Deflect. Distract._

Souji puts on a self-depreciating smile. “I’m really sorry, Partner,” (because he knows Yosuke is weak to the nickname), “I left right after Naoto found me. I would have said something but I was afraid I’d have to answer to Kashiwagi if she caught me trying to leave.” He twists his face into something that might be a non-verbal “yikes.”

And that’s what does the trick.

Yosuke’s expression switches to a more exaggerated version of Souji’s own. “Oh _god._ Smart thinking, man, she probably would’ve made you stay even if you’d throw up on _her._ ” He shudders. “Her in a swimsuit is gonna haunt my nightmares forever.”

Souji _actually_ balks at that. _“Swimsuit?”_ has asks, genuinely aghast as he looks to Chie for confirmation. Oh. Well hell, now he feels even _worse_ for leaving Naoto to their fate the other day.

Chie nods. “Yeah, we had to go up there in swimsuits and dresses and _everything._ It was humiliating.”

The way Souji’s face contorts in unbridled, empathetic discomfort is completely real and completely involuntary. “I am _so_ sorry.”

Yukiko looks at him, puzzled. “Why? _You_ didn’t sign us up.” She and Chie both shoot Yosuke a look that could curdle blood.

“Oh come on!” Yosuke sputters in response. “It couldn’t have been _that_ bad.”

Something tightens in Souji’s chest and, not for the first time, he wishes he had the courage to shut Yosuke’s bullshit down. But he doesn’t, so he doesn’t, and the trickle of self hate from earlier drips just a little bit faster.

Souji bites down hard on the inside of his cheek.

“At least everything _you_ wore was _meant_ for girls,” Yosuke is saying, holding his hands up as though trying to placate a snarling dog. It seems to be going about as well as expected.

He turns his head to shoot Souji a look that says _‘back me up’_ but Souji simply raises an eyebrow at him. He might not be brave enough to tell his best friend off for being a prick, but he also has no desire to get pulled into the hole Yosuke is digging right now.

Yosuke seems to understand that Souji isn’t going to help him, because his face is distinctly paler when he turns back to the girls and says, “You wanna talk humiliating, us guys had it _so much worse_ in drag!”

_Wrong move._

Yosuke lets out a squawk as the girls rightfully begin to tear into him like feral cats; Chie with her fist and Yukiko with words like daggers. Souji lets it happen.

Silently, he digs out his bento and tries _very hard_ not to be bitter. About the way Yosuke’s words leave a weird hot-stinging sensation in Souji’s chest, about how no one seems inclined to apologize for signing _him_ up for the pageant; just… _everything._

He squashes the thoughts back down before they can affect his outward expression. It’s fine, it’s okay, everything is okay; he doesn’t feel childishly irritated over the whole damn situation. He just wants the subject dropped.

“I should go apologize to the others,” he says as he stands. No one seems to really hear him, but Yukiko does spare him a nod as he passes. Chie is too busy digging her knuckles into Yosuke’s scalp to notice him leaving.

He heads out the door, bento in hand, and starts in the direction of the stairwell. He really does plan on apologizing to Kanji and Rise at some point today – and Teddie, too, of course, though Souji stills feels shaky at the thought of talking to him just yet – but for now he really just wants to find Naoto. He hopes they like onigiri; out of all his friends, Naoto is the only one he hasn’t yet had a chance to make lunch for, and food will be a good way to start thanking them properly now that the chaos has mostly died down.

It definitely doesn’t have anything to do with Souji finding his own appetite gone for the third time in several days.

 

\---

 

Lunch with Naoto is a welcome break from the tension of his own classroom. He tries to apologize in person – because it’s more polite than over the phone – but Naoto doesn’t let him. Instead, they wave away his attempt with a light flush on their face and pull down their cap to hide it. It doesn’t quite work. Still, the air between the two of them is surprisingly easy to breathe and Souji feels the last of the jitters drain from his limbs.

They talk a bit. It isn’t for very long, since Souji had spent the first third of the lunch period spinning his not-story for Chie, Yukiko, and Yosuke, but the conversation is easier than he’s used to and he realizes with a kind of happy warmth that it’s because he isn’t having to _hide._ He doesn’t need to keep his voice in check, keep it purposefully low and quiet, so he’s actually able to talk a little more than he usually does and not worry what will happen if he lets his vocal chords do as they want. He’s practiced for years at this point, anyway, so the danger is minimal, but sometimes, _sometimes_ his throat starts to hurt when he tries for a tone just the wrong side of comfortable.

He’s even managed to regain some of his appetite by the time the end of lunch rolls around and together, he and Naoto make a decent-sized dent in the humble bento. (It turns out that, yes, Naoto does in fact like onigiri, and that the seasoned rice with tuna is their unexpected favorite.) Naoto thanks him but he turns the tables and waves their thanks away in a similar fashion to what they’d done with his apology. They part with plans to spend lunch together again before the week is over and Souji finds he’s wearing the same small, genuine smile that only seems to come out because of Naoto.

He’s almost late getting back because he actually runs into Rise on the way to his classroom and takes the opportunity to apologize to her, too. She does start to blame herself, just like he thought she might, but a well placed smile that he knows makes her blush and a few words of reassurance have her giving him a watery smile in return. He makes it back just in the nick of time with one more friendship smoothed over.

The second half of the day is… interesting. Things seem to have gone back to relatively normal between him and Yukiko and Chie. Chie asks him how it went right before the teacher walks in and Souji flashes her a quick thumbs up. She grins.

No, everything is fine with the girls; it’s Yosuke that appears to still have issues. On any other day his best friend would be poking him in the back with the top of a pencil, tapping him in the side with a note he was passing, whispering snarky commentary about something one of their teachers says, but today…

Souji wants to ask just how badly Chie knuckled him, but he thinks that may be the least of the reasons why Yosuke isn’t interacting like he normally does. A lump forms in Souji throat that refuses to go away no matter how many times he tries to swallow it down.

It takes for _ever_ but the final bell eventually rings and, nervous as he is about, well, _everything_ anymore, Souji slides around in his seat to give his partner a smile. He tries to make it as real as he can, calling on all the good things he feels about Yosuke and tucking his earlier frustrations away for the time being. As much of an ass as Yosuke can be, he’s still Souji’s best friend, and Souji would very much like that dynamic back now, if possible. He misses normal.

Just as he opens his mouth to ask if Yosuke wants to walk home together, the other boy stands and slings his bag over his shoulder. Yosuke hurries out of the room, only pausing briefly to turn around and walk backwards while flashing Souji a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I gotta get ready for work, I’ll see ya later, Partner!” And then he’s dashing out the door with one last, “I’m glad you’re better, dude!”

It hurts a bit, like a bruise he accidentally smacked that now throbs a dull rhythm. But, he supposes he might deserve it after the scare he gave everybody, and it wouldn’t surprise him if Yosuke were still upset about Souji not letting him know he was alright. He also can’t actually say his partner _doesn’t_ have an after-school shift, so in the end Souji resigns himself to that little spark of pain and vows to text Yosuke later before he goes to bed. Maybe he’ll bring another lunch to share tomorrow. Just to be safe.

He stays and talks to Yukiko and Chie for a few minutes before Yukiko remembers that she has to go help set up for a large business dinner being held at the inn that night. Chie offers to walk with her and Souji bids them both farewell.

The biggest surprise of the day, however, is finding Kanji waiting by his shoe locker, looking more than a little trepidatious.

At first Souji thinks it’s about his disappearing act the other day; after all, Kanji is the only schoolmate he still owes an apology to. (Teddie is, again, a different matter altogether.) So Souji puts on the appropriate facial expression and readies himself to repeat the story one more time.

“Kanji, hi,” he says, nodding when his friend looks up at his approach.

Kanji stands up straighter from where he’s been leaning against he side of the lockers, but he keeps his arms across his chest like a shield. “H-hey, Senpai.” He looks away and doesn’t say anything more.

Taking that as his cue to start, Souji politely tilts his head and puts on the familiar sheepish expression. “I should apologize—“

“You busy right now?”

Souji blinks stupidly. He closes his mouth with a quiet _‘click’_ and takes a second to recover from being cut off and thrown wildly off-balance.

Kanji flushes. “Sorry, Senpai, I just…” He clears his throat and looks back up, shoulders squaring. “I gotta talk to somebody about somethin’ and you’re kinda the only person I trust with it.”

Souji’s eyes go impossibly wider. He feels his brows somewhere up near his hairline and absently wonders where his perfect control over his own face went. “I…” he starts, still not entirely reoriented. He quickly switches gears and tries to tuck the confusion away to make room for Friend Mode. “O…kay?”

Well. It’s something. He clears his throat and stars again, the smallest of frowns creeping along his mouth. “Is everything alright? You know I’ll help in any way I can.”

Kanji gives him nothing but a stiff nod and poorly concealed nerves.

Souji keeps a tight leash on his expression. “Okay, well, let me get my shoes and we can walk together?” he tries. He not sure if he should be anxious or not but whatever Kanji needs him for, Souji knows that _he’ll_ at least feel more at ease somewhere further away from school.

“Oh!” Kanji startles a little and steps far enough back that Souji can get to his locker. “Right. Sorry.”

Five minutes later sees them passing through the school gates, side by side in silence.

Without a clear destination, Souji simply steers them towards the floodplain. If the little seating area is free then that’s where he plans to take them; it’s a familiar enough place that he feels comfortable talking there, but also has plenty of open air so he can make a hasty – but polite – escape should he need to. He doesn’t like that his first reactions to half his friends these days have been self-debates on whether or not he can outrun them.

Kanji keeps fidgeting as they walk, like his fingers are tracing out knitting patterns to keep his mind busy. Souji doesn’t know if he’s ever seen Kanji so jittery when Naoto wasn’t nearby for his friend to sweat over. Their mutual crush is adorable in how obvious it is to everyone but them and Souji hopes one of them will make a move some day. They would make a good couple.

Matchmaking aside, Souji wonders if maybe he should try his apology once more – if only to break the cacophonous silence. He’s had more than enough silence from his own parents, thanks; he doesn’t like it from his friends.

The thought cuts a deep path through Souji’s chest and he grinds his teeth against it, though the pain is an old one and he’s long since grown accustomed to it. It’s been a while since his mind has turned to _that_ particular dark corner.

(He tramples another thought before it can fully form – one that seems hell-bent on comparing certain old hurts with the newer ache of Yosuke apparently avoiding him.)

“I owe you an apology,” he says suddenly, his voice a bit too loud in his own ears. He turns his head to catch Kanji twitching like he’s been startled before looking over at Souji in confusion.

“Huh? What for?”

Souji keeps his features carefully schooled. “For what happened after the pageant. Running off and not telling anyone where I went.” He tilts his head and does not frown. “Freaking everyone out?”

“Oh, that.” Kanji rubs at the back of his neck. “I appreciate it, but you don’t gotta apologize to me, Senpai. Naoto and Rise both already filled me in.” He pauses to give Souji a long, appraising look. “How’re ya feelin’, by the way?”

That catches Souji off guard. It seems Kanji is just exceptionally good at that today. “I’m alright,” he says honestly. Once more, he avoids the word “fine” because that, to him, would imply more than just physical alright-ness and he just… doesn’t want to think about that anymore.

Kanji seems satisfied with his answer and turns back to watching the world in front of them. “Can’t say I wasn’t worried, ‘specially after seeing you bookin’ it down the hallway like that, but I figured you’d let someone know eventually.” He shrugs. “And if you didn’t me an’ Naoto were gonna go check out your house after school today.”

Souji actually chuckles at that, breath stuttering past his lips to form the sound. “So they told me.” He lets one corner of his mouth tug upward as he catches Kanji’s eye again. “Thank you. And I _am_ sorry.”

Kanji flushes and looks away. “Nah, ‘s nothing.”

The rest of the walk is significantly less tense after that.

Subsequently, it’s also shorter than it had seemed a few minutes ago. They arrive not long after and Souji takes it upon himself to sit down and fold his hands over the tabletop, leaving Kanji to lean his hip against the opposite corner.

_Well, here goes._

“Alright,” he says, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “What can I do to help?”

Kanji snorts, but it’s neither derogatory nor mirthful. He doesn’t look at Souji as he crosses his arms back over his chest. “Ain’t really somethin’ I need _help_ with so much as I just need to... get it off my chest, ya know?” He frees one hand and makes a sharp, vague gesture near where his heart is. “I can’t keep it in anymore; I gotta tell _somebody_ or I’m gonna go crazy and… well, I figured you’re the safest bet...”

Souji’s expression melts into something soft, warm, amiable. “Well thank you,” he says, genuinely a little touched, only for Kanji’s entire face to go cinnamon-red.

Kanji makes a noise of frustration, scrubbing furiously at his hair to hide his burning cheeks before just giving up and turning so that Souji is now staring at his back. “Damnit, that wasn’t—! UG.” He takes a moment to gather himself; Souji gives it to him. Eventually Kanji lets out a heavy breath and straightens up once more. He makes no move to turn around.

“Look, Senpai, you… You’ve always accepted me, yeah? You never treated me like I was some kinda delinquent or, or _whatever_ Yosuke-senpai fuckin’ thinks I am—“

“Of course I wouldn’t,” Souji says, low and dark and steely. He feels the bitterness and self-dislike bubbling up from their deep-seated pools. Kanji is a good person – rough around the edges, yes, but still just a kid like the rest of them and a genuinely kind one at that. Souji hates how afraid he’s been of jeopardizing Yosuke’s opinion of him, of how he’s been too much of a coward to stand up for his younger friend and make Yosuke apologize for his homophobia. A team is only as good as its leader and Souji must really be a poor leader if he can’t even stop his own lieutenant from being a jerk.

 _It’s not just that you’re afraid of losing him as a friend,_ his mind whispers. _You’re afraid of him **finding out.**_

Souji glues his tongue to the roof of his mouth and clamps down on the horrible way his chest constricts.

Luckily Kanji is still facing away from him. “Y-yeah,” he agrees, oblivious to his senpai’s internal self-disgust. “Yeah, you’re cool like that. An’ that’s why you’re kinda my best bud.”

Oh, now _that_ just makes Souji feel even worse. He’d forgotten that Kanji had told him that once, back when Naoto had first officially joined the IT, and hearing it again now is like a fist to the spine. He’s failed Kanji, he really has, he—

“And I mean! I know you an’ Yosuke-senpai are ‘partners’ or whatever, but I just… I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is that I _trust_ you, Senpai.” Kanji sighs, the line of tension in his shoulders giving way. He tucks his hands into his pants pockets and stares at something out over the grey-sapphire shimmer of the river below.

Souji swallows. “Kanji…”

He doesn’t know what to say. What _can_ he say, besides another useless “sorry”?

But Kanji just shakes his head and leans his weight back on his heels. He looks up at the sky, or maybe just lolls his head back in resignation, like a man coming to terms with the thousand-foot-drop that awaits him.

Souji knows the feeling.

“I think,” he says – and it’s so quiet that Souji has to lean forward to try and hear him better. There is a pause as Kanji takes a deep, long breath and lets it out.

“I think I might be bi.”

Souji is floored. Of _all the possible_ things that Kanji could have just said to him, Souji was very much NOT excepting that to be one of them. It comes so far out of left field that it actually shocks all of Souji’s dark and guilty thoughts into absolute silence.

The quiet rings out between them, stretching into an impossibly long handful of seconds. Souji needs to respond, he knows he needs to, can see the way Kanji’s shoulders have started to tighten and hunch, but for the first time in forever Souji’s mind is empty and he cannot remember how to form words with his tongue.

So he just blinks like an owl and breathes out a soft, “…Oh.” Because really, how else can he react?

Something about how he says it has Kanji tentatively turning halfway around to look at him. Kanji’s face is guarded, like he’s ready at any moment to throw up his bravado, his shields, and the vulnerability it exposes is enough to finally, _finally_ snap Souji back into action.

A warm smile spreads over Souji’s features, hardly even bidden, and he leans back to sit more naturally upright. He lets the smile crinkle at the corners of his eyes. “Thank you for telling me, Kanji.” He keeps his voice light, calm, _kind;_ he is completely honest when he glances away and says, “I know how hard it must have been to say it out loud.”

Kanji’s eyes widen in realization. “Senpai… You, too?”

Souji makes a sound somewhere between a cough and a wispy bark of laughter. It’s stifled, but his shoulders jerk with the veiled force of the noise and he matches Kanji’s gaze with a tired, understanding one of his own. “Not _bi,_ no,” he says pointedly, cocking an eyebrow and hoping it’s visible beneath his hair.

Kanji lets out a shaky breath. “Oh,” he echoes. He slides down onto the bench across from Souji, almost like he’s a block of ice melting in the sudden sunlight. “So you’re…?”

“Yeah.”

They sit in companionable silence for a minute, each processing the conversation so far.

After a few beats, Souji tilts his head curiously and asks, “What made you want to tell me?”

Oh, that…

Souji immediately dislikes how that sounded and his face twists minutely at the sour taste the words leave on his tongue. He hastily adds, “I’m honored that you did, don’t get me wrong, but—“

“Why’d I pick _now?”_

Souji sucks part of his lip between his teeth and nods.

Kanji sighs and leans back on the bench – which looks horribly uncomfortable, considering there’s nothing for his back to rest against. He re-crosses his arms and looks up at a passing cloud. “I started figuring it out a while ago and it’s been buggin’ me ever since. Like, it’s too big a secret to keep by myself, ya know?”

Souji does know. Oh _god_ does he know.

He nods again, even though Kanji can’t see it properly while looking elsewhere. Kanji seems to catch it, though, because he keeps going.

“And after all that shit with my shadow, I just… I dunno. I’m sick of tryin’a hide from myself, so I thought, hey, this is a thing about me, might as well accept it.” He pauses and shifts awkwardly, clearly trying to consider his next words. His eyes flick over to Souji once or twice but he quickly averts them again right after.

Souji waits. He refuses to make this any more difficult for his friend than it already is.

He has a hard time keeping the surprise from his face, though, when Kanji mutters, “Weirdest part is, I _knew_ but it didn’t really _hit_ me until the stupid pageant.”

“The _pageant?”_ Souji blurts. _“How?!”_ Everything in his head scrambles a little, and there is a moment where he’s just gaping at Kanji like a fish with his mouth trying to form shapes and failing miserably.

He not sure how two people could have such wildly different reactions to that living nightmare of a day.

Kanji actually laughs at his outburst – a bit awkwardly, but still a laugh. “Yeah, the whole thing sucked ass, didn’t it?” He scratches at this cheek. “Kinda liked my dress, though…”

“It looked good on you,” Souji mumbles, still not fully recovered.

Kanji flushes and glances away. “Thanks, Senpai. You uh, you looked good, t—“ He trails off as he looks back over at Souji, eyes widening and brows furrowing.

Souji’s making a face; he knows he is, there’s no way he isn’t when there’s a layer of frost creeping its freezing fingers over his heart. He can feel the stretch of his lips over his teeth in a twisting grimace that’s well beyond his own control. _Don’t think about it, please don’t think about it..._

Kanji coughs into his fist. “Uh, I mean, you always look good, Senpai.” His expression does something funny, like he’s just realized what he’d said, and he apparently just gives up trying to salvage it. Instead, he props his elbows up on the table and drops his face into his hands. “Fuuuuuuuuck! See? That’s my problem! Naoto always looks good and _you_ always look good, and I can’t catch a break!” He ‘ _thunks_ ’ his forehead down onto the hard wooden tabletop. Souji hopes he hasn’t hurt himself.

Kanji’s voice is muffled when he says, “That ain’t a confession, I swear, I just think you’re handsome, same as everybody else does.”

Oh.

_OH!_

Souji’s expression does a 180 and he can _feel_ himself beaming. He’d been scared; after what Teddie had said, Souji had been expecting Kanji to say something similar, to say his bisexual realization had come about because of Souji in costume. (He suppresses a shudder at that.) But no. Kanji had called him “handsome” instead, which meant – awkward friendly attraction aside – Kanji had found him attractive _as a guy._ Not because he’d been dressed as something he wasn’t, Kanji had seen him at face value: a guy in a costume.

If he wasn’t so certain that Naoto would pistol whip him, Souji thinks he could dive across the table towards Kanji right now and _kiss_ him.

He reins it in and settles for chuckling instead. “I’m flattered.” And he really kind of is. His eyes are fond as he adds, “I’m proud of you, too.”

Kanji sits back up again and flashes Souji a sheepish – albeit heavily relieved – grin. “You’re somethin’ else, ya know that, Senpai?”

Souji just beams brighter and gives him a noncommittal shrug.

Kanji exhales, the remaining tension bleeding out into the dirt below their feet. “Damn. It feels good to let all that out.” He laughs again, the sound light and relaxed. “I was gonna tell my ma first, but I think she already knows.”

Souji nods. His mouth turns imperceptibly downward and he says, with just a touch of chill, “A good mother usually does.” He tightens his face against the way it wants to crumple, and if there is a new ball of bitter thorns in his stomach then he chooses to leave it be.

Kanji thankfully doesn’t notice the way Souji’s expression has turned plastic. “Yeah,” he agrees, “and she’s said stuff before about ‘bringing a girl or a boy over for dinner’. I thought she was talkin’ about friends at the time but now I’m not so sure.”

He matches Souji’s gaze right as Souji manages to school his face back into something more natural. “I’m real glad I told you first, though.”

Warmth settles in on top of the thorny clot of pain and soothes the worst of the jagged edges. It’s still there – has been for years – but it’s easier to manage than it was a minute ago. Souji huffs through his nose, his quiet little not-laugh, and looks down at the table. Maybe he’s being selfish, but it makes him feel special in a way he thinks might be just what he’s needed.

“Me, too,” he says, and relishes in the feeling of fizzing, giddy brightness as the Emperor arcana jumps up another rank.

 

\---

 

Souji goes home in a better mood than he ever expected to be. He makes dinner, watches TV with Nanako, manages to get a head start on the schoolwork he’d missed the day before. The only damper on his happiness is the fact that, despite Souji texting him several times throughout the evening, Yosuke has yet to answer back.

The sting from that afternoon returns and Souji is left frowning at his phone screen as he lies on his futon before sleeping. _It’s… fine,_ he tells himself. _I deserve this for scaring him like that. I’m overreacting._

He sets the phone aside and turns over, determined not to let it get to him. He’s asleep in minutes – well before midnight – and so doesn’t notice when the sky starts to open and drizzle gentle rain over top the resting world.

He doesn’t even stir when the clock strikes twelve and his television crackles to white-static life, a faceless monochrome figure peering out into his room with lightning-colored eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title is taken from 'The Grey' by Icon For Hire.
> 
> Listen to the playlist on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/qr3jt923f3k6r9qxlt514mopm/playlist/7wqvOlmp9wxe8FT6B9pALQ) or [Youtube.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLo73OgaRqSRHtyrRk4R35il-_3b4supLS)
> 
> Like my work? Wanna geek out with me or buy me a coffee? Come and hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/DaemonSparks) or [tumblr](http://chroniccombustion.tumblr.com/)~


	3. The Walls You Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is wrong.
> 
> Yosuke is in the hallway outside their classroom by the time Souji and Kanji have parted ways, backed against the wall by a fuming Chie and a scowling Yukiko. There is a bright red handprint burning across the side of Yosuke’s face.
> 
> “You!” Chie snarls, fists balled at her sides. “What the hell is wrong with you? You’ve been acting like a jackass all week!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh jeez. I am so, so sorry about the delay you guys; I meant to have this up _last_ Friday, but time-consuming adulty stuff and computer problems just... kept happening.  
> Also, this chapter is LITERALLY longer than the first two combined (36 pages, give or take), so it took forever to write. Plus I redid the scenes with Yukiko and Chie a couple of times because I'm not very confident about my portrayal of them and I hated my first few tries. (There are also a few scenes that were very emotionally draining for me to write because I based them off of my own personal experiences, so I kept having to take long breaks to put myself in a better mental place.)  
> All that being said, since I'm now behind and the chapters are getting longer, I might start updating every OTHER Friday instead of on a weekly basis. 
> 
> And as always, thank you guys SO DAMN MUCH! Your support has meant the world to me so far, and I genuinely couldn't keep this up without you! Please know that I do read every comment, even if I don't respond right away. (It's nothing personal, I promise; I have ADHD and it makes it hard for me to focus long enough to reply sometimes.)
> 
> __  
> **CHAPTER WARNINGS: HOMOPHOBIA, IMPLIED PAST CHILD ABUSE**

_“You were falling away,_  
_you left me with a bittersweet taste_  
_But when I send my heart your way,_  
_it bounces off the walls you made, ricochet…”_

_(“Ricochet”, Starset)_

**_November_ **

 

The week stretches on after Souji’s return to school and, for the most part, life has gone back to normal.

There are a few exceptions, of course, such as the newfound rush of safety he feels whenever he and Naoto spot each other in the hallways. The short smiles he gives them are lighter, freer than they would have been the week prior, and in response Naoto’s smiles are soft and warm and reach their eyes without any of the unsurety he knows they still harbor when it comes to actually having friends. He thinks that might be another reason the two of them click so well; Naoto’s used to isolation, too.

The physical kind as well as the mental.

Another happy exception to the normality of everyday life is the way Kanji has taken to meeting him a short distance from school and walking in with him in the mornings. It’s nice, and seeing the way Kanji’s face lights up and his shoulders relax makes Souji happy in ways he can’t quite describe. It reminds him just a bit of when Nanako shows off something she did in class and it makes his heart pulse with pride.

Souji loves all of his friends, of course, and he loves helping people (loves feeling needed, _wanted,_ like maybe he’s worth something after all), but he’s still not used to having people around him, even after months. Souji hates to admit even to himself, but he isn’t sure how to _be_ a friend; there’s a tiny part of him that wonders if he’s only been going through some kind of pre-set motions. He usually tries to discard that thought immediately and replace it with the reminder that he _enjoys_ making his friends happy, spending time with them, doing things _with_ them and not just _for_ them. It helps, if only for a while.

With Kanji and Naoto, though, it seems deeper. He wouldn’t say they’re more important because that sounds too cold, but he acknowledges that those two are definitely in a category all their own. They share secrets with him, and he them – that’s a level of trust and comradery that Souji’s never experienced before.

He’s noticed he tends to put his friends into groups, just for his own mental benefit. Chie was the first person that extended a friendly hand right after he’d arrived in Inaba. Yosuke came soon after, yes, but Chie beat him to it by a day, so Souji counts her as his first friend here. Yukiko, too, though she hadn’t had much time and wasn’t there with them upon their first visits to the TV world, but Yukiko and Chie are a pair and Souji can’t think of one without the other. Separate people, but very much part of a whole.

Teddie and Nanako are in a group together, too, one that overlaps Rise in a kind of venn diagram. Teddie is like an excitable younger brother – not his own, but more like the Group Little Brother – and the bear’s adoration for Nanako is so precious that Souji thinks it might rival his own a little. Nanako is _family_ and Teddie is _team family_ and Rise is something similar that Souji can’t quite name. He likes her, respects her for her strength and willingness to take control of her own life despite her fear. She’s open in a way that Souji wishes he could be, still has an innocence that reminds him of Teddie and Nanako only different, and while Souji can’t give her what she wants in terms of love, she is still dear to him. She’s known loneliness, too, just like him, just like Teddie and Nanako and, well, _all_ of them, it seems; a group of lonely people seeking solace in each other.

Souji desperately doesn’t want to be lonely anymore.

But that’s the other exception to how the week has returned to usual: a special, terrible kind of lonely ache that only comes when someone you care about wants nothing to do with you. An ache Souji is so, so horribly familiar with.

Yosuke is avoiding him.

Midweek rolls around and whatever rift has formed in their friendship has only seemed to widen. Souji is especially grateful to Kanji for walking the last fifteen or so minutes to school with him because Yosuke doesn’t wait for Souji at their usual spot in the mornings to walk together, nor does he show up when Souji waits for _him._ In fact, it almost seems like Yosuke has started timing his arrival to the classroom so that he just barely makes it into his seat before the teacher walks in. Souji wonders if Yosuke has been hiding in the hallway until the very last minute.

He disappears at lunch, too, dashing off as soon as the break begins and only coming back just as the bell sounds, ensuring the absolute minimal amount of interaction possible. During the time where they’re all actually in class isn’t any better because his evasive behavior from Tuesday has been ramped up to 11. He’s jittery and distracted, refusing to look directly at Souji even when he’s forced to and instead looking just past Souji’s shoulder or somewhere near their desks. He doesn’t speak to Souji unless Souji speaks to him first, and only then in short, non-committal responses – and only if he absolutely cannot pretend he didn’t hear him in the first place.

But it gets weirder. Despite doing everything possible to keep from having to talk to or make eye contact with him, Yosuke does an awful lot of looking at Souji when Souji isn’t looking directly back. He keeps staring when he thinks Souji doesn’t know, and more than once Souji catches Yosuke giving him strange looks out of the corner of his eye, only for Yosuke to look away as if electrocuted when he notices Souji has seen him. Like Souji’s gaze is somehow toxic.

It’s maddening.

It _hurts._

On top of all that, the apathetic silence and constant staring, Yosuke also seems… nervous? Uncomfortable? _Something_ around him, and Souji isn’t sure but he thinks it might be the same kind of uncomfortable that Yosuke had been around Kanji in the tent during the camping trip. _That_ leaves a whole new kind of bitter taste in his mouth, a familiar tightness in his heart. But Souji has no idea what’s brought it on; it makes him question if this is still about Souji disappearing after the pageant and not telling Yosuke where he went. Is Yosuke that upset that Souji didn’t back him up against Chie the day Souji had come back? Or is he annoyed that Souji hadn’t been there to ogle swimsuits with him during the second pageant? Or is it something else entirely?

Whatever it is, Souji wants his friend back – and for whatever his partner is doing to _stop._

After class is no different. It’s the same story every day, that he has a shift he has to rush off to, to the point where, for two days in a row, he didn’t even bother to give Souji the opportunity to say goodbye as Yosuke was rushing out the door. It’s hard not to take it personally, and Souji has taken to reaching desperately across the Wheel of Fortune and Emperor bonds just to feel that warm, golden thrum and keep himself from sinking into a familiar pool of sadness and dread.

Because Souji can feel the Magician arcana stretching thinner, can feel its edges fraying, and it feels like the floor is dropping out from under him in his helplessness to stop it.

This isn’t what his friendship with Yosuke is supposed to _be_ like – Yosuke is sunlight and smiles, someone he can lean on and who leans on him without shame, whom Souji is happy to help support. They’re _partners,_ damnit, and no matter how bad things got they were supposed to work to _keep_ it that way.

He tries to avoid going to Junes for as long as he can because he doesn’t want that to be another place where Yosuke runs away from him. He doesn’t want Yosuke to feel trapped, but he also wants to give his partner the benefit of the doubt for as long as he can. If he’s honest with himself, Souji is terrified that he’ll get there and find out Yosuke never had a shift at all.

The house needs groceries, though, and Nanako has that look about her that says she needs a bit of cheering up, so on Thursday he texts Teddie to ask if the little bear is working and what time he goes in. He still owes his strange friend an in-person apology, after all, even though he’d called him after school on Tuesday. Teddie of course is elated and informs Souji that his shift starts at 5:00, so Souji wraps his sister’s tiny hand in his own and plasters an exhausted smile onto his face.

They meet Teddie (who arrives in his human form), outside Junes, where he proceeds to throw himself bodily at Souji and wrap practically every limb he has around Souji’s waist. Souji just awkwardly pats at Teddie’s head and lets the boy hang off him in what has to be the world’s most bizarre attempt at reverse-mitosis. Thankfully, Teddie had been so emotional over the phone when Souji had first called him that he’d forgotten to ask why Souji had run off in the first place. Souji uses this to his advantage as he recounts the same story he’d used for everyone else, playing up that he’d been “perfectly fine” until he “suddenly felt very sick.”

Teddie sniffles in that overdramatic way of his and raises watery eyes, informing Souji, “You leave it to me next time, okay, Sensei? I’ll come over and take the beary best care of you!”

Souji smiles and tells him “thank you” and pointedly does _not_ let on how uncomfortable that statement makes him feel. Teddie is incredibly sweet, but good intentions or not, he knows little about the human world and Souji doesn’t feel like getting sick for _real_.

(There are a myriad of _other_ reasons he doesn’t want to ever have to take Teddie up on that offer, but Souji stuffs them into a box in the corner of his mind and tapes it shut as best he can. Just more things he doesn’t want to think about.)

They talk for a few minutes more before Souji, casually as can be, asks Teddie if he’d like to go grocery shopping with Nanako before his shift starts.

Nanako and Teddie both instantly perk up with an excited “Can we?!”

Souji nods. The two of them run inside and Souji finds a place to sit down and wait. He trusts Teddie, even if the bear is a handful sometimes, and this way Nanako gets to spend time with her friend while still getting the shopping done. He only feels a little bit bad about manipulating them like this, but neither of them had needed any kind of pushing, so it isn’t like he’d done anything _too_ horrible. He lets himself get away with this one, if only because of how happy Nanako had looked.

And this way, Souji doesn’t have to run the risk of bumping into Yosuke. Or worse, _not_ bump into him and be given undeniable proof that Yosuke wants nothing to do with him.

Souji abruptly switches directions, deciding to try and keep his mind from spiraling again by going to look for the stray cats that sometimes hang around the Junes dumpsters until Nanko is comes back.

Trying to text Yosuke outside of school and around his supposed shifts proves just as fruitless as everything else. Souji texts and texts and texts, has pulled up Yosuke’s number more than once and held his thumb over the call button for _ages_ before chickening out and shutting his phone. There is barely any answer. If he responds at all it’s with things like “k” or “yea” and maybe a smiley but nothing else. Souji must be extra lucky that night, because Yosuke finally messages him back hours and hours later with “srry @ work” after Souji had sent him an “I miss you, Partner,” right after leaving school.

So Souji decides to stop trying to apologize, to stop waiting for a response, to just stop trying at all. He doesn’t want to, wants to try and stick it out for a while longer, ( _just a little, just a day or two, maybe he’ll come around, maybe he’ll like me again),_ but Souji has already given far too many people far too long and he’s tired of waiting for something that’s never going to come.

The dark, resentful little voice in his head tells him he really must be a Fool if he ever could have thought Yosuke would be any different. It whispers that the case is over, Kubo was caught, and now Yosuke doesn’t need him anymore.

 _He never cared about **you,** _it hisses, _he only cared about your help. You only have worth as long as you’re useful, remember?_

It threatens to break him, but he’s picked himself up off the floor after being shattered completely in the past; he’s learned by now how to make it so that he only cracks instead of splinters.

So he builds the wall back up around his heart and prepares himself for the end of an era. Friday morning, just as he’s heading out the door to go meet up with Kanji, he sends one last message that he knows probably won’t be read until long after it no longer matters.

 **Seta Souji:** I’m sorry. I won’t bother you anymore.

He turns his phone off and leaves it in his bag where he doesn’t have to look at it.

 

**\---**

 

Something is wrong.

Yosuke is in the hallway outside their classroom by the time Souji and Kanji have parted ways, backed against the wall by a fuming Chie and a scowling Yukiko. There is a bright red handprint burning across the side of Yosuke’s face.

 _“You!”_ Chie snarls, fists balled at her sides. “What the _hell_ is wrong with you? You’ve been acting like a jackass all _week!”_

Yosuke’s face is oddly devoid of anything as he says, “Chill _out,_ Chie, it was just a joke.”

Yukiko’s hackles rise impossibly higher and she holds up a hand palm out as if to slap him again. She opens her mouth to say, “It wasn’t funny!” just as Chie barks, “Like _hell_ it was!”

Yosuke flinches involuntarily, but his face remains impassive, even as the other students milling about the hallway begin to gather and stare. He gazes back at the two girls with lightless eyes.

He _tisks._ “Yeah, well, you’re girls, of course you wouldn’t get it; it’s _guy_ humor.”

Chie crowds in closer until she’s right up in Yosuke’s face and he’s looking down his nose at her, going slightly cross-eyed in the process. “You think you’re such hot shit,” she seethes, and even from a few feet away, Souji can _feel_ the anger rolling off of her. She pushes a finger into Yosuke’s chest, _hard,_ and says, “We put up with your nasty ‘jokes’ and your weird staring because you’re our _friend,_ but there’s a limit, Hanamura! And you’re freaking _pushing it.”_

“Girls don’t like it when you say things like that,” Yukiko adds, voice low and sharp and cold in a way Souji doesn’t think he’s ever heard from her before. “If your brand of humor makes other people uncomfortable, then it isn’t really humor at all, it’s _gross.”_

Souji feels something acidic churning in his gut. Yosuke has always had a penchant for dirty jokes and gutter-minded trains of thought, but he’d been doing better lately, had slowed his lewd comments considerably in the months since the IT had woven itself to near family-like tightness. Souji had wanted to believe that most of the remaining perviness was just harmless, friendly banter – especially since it was usually aimed at Chie, who could throw a few good barbs right back and never lace them with any real heat. But that was before the pageant, and now Souji has the vile, disheartening suspicion that whatever Yosuke has done to get the girls so angry is linked to that. He thinks back to the comments Yosuke had made about the girls on stage on Tuesday and Souji feels his heart convulse.

_You really were wrong about him, weren’t you?_

As if he’d somehow heard Souji’s darkening thoughts, Yosuke’s eyes finally veer away from Chie and off to the side – where they grow almost comically wide as he catches sight of Souji standing not five feet away.

Souji doesn’t know what his face looks like, but whatever Yosuke sees there must stun him into silence. They stare at each other for several tense seconds – the first eye contact Yosuke has made with him in _days._

Yukiko and Chie both notice Yosuke’s sudden change in demeanor and turn to follow his panicked line of sight. It’s enough to break whatever spell he’s under, because the moment their attention is focused on Souji, Yosuke shoves his arm between them and slips out from where they’ve kept him trapped against the wall.

“Whatever,” he spits, face locking down as he turns his back to Souji. “You guys throw your hissy fit, I’m goin’ to class.” He tugs his headphone up over his ears and stalks the rest of the way down the hall, disappearing into the classroom like a sulking child.

A piece of Souji’s heart chips off and falls away.

“Asshole,” Chie growls after him, even though Yosuke is long gone. She plants her fists on her hips, turning back to Souji and heaving out an aggravated sigh. “Hi,” she says, and it’s very much tinged with something Souji knows isn’t directed at him.

“Uh, hi,” he says, unable to keep from frowning. “What happened?”

The warning bell sounds and Yukiko, who has been glowering in the direction Yosuke left, waves a hand at them both over her shoulder. “We’ll tell you at lunch,” she says, and her voice is still that low-simmering ire. It’s terrifying, even if Souji isn’t on the receiving end of it. She starts walking towards the classroom, shooting heated glares at anyone still lingering nearby. “For now we should hurry before we’re late.”

Chie nods at him before jogging off after Yukiko, and Souji takes a few extra seconds to try and breathe normally before he joins them. He’s almost the last one into the room by the time he recovers, and he doesn’t even have to look at Yosuke to know his former partner is looking everywhere but at _him._

It’s a long, long time until the break for lunch begins.

 

\---

 

As expected, Yosuke is up and moving practically before the bell has finished ringing. He doesn’t even pretend to be polite this time; the moment the clock hands tick into place he’s shoving his headphones up onto his ears and is out of his seat like the wind caster he is. Nobody tries to stop him, and Souji doesn’t have the will to watch him leave.

With his heart somewhere down near his feet, Souji shifts in his chair until both Chie and Yukiko are more clearly visible without turning his head too far. He moves slowly, in absolutely no hurry to hear whatever it is he’s about to hear. A part of him is torn, of course, because he wants to help his friends, to know what went down in the hallway so he can make everything better – especially for the girls, since it’s obvious they were the ones wronged. On the other hand, Souji isn’t sure he can handle knowing just how badly Yosuke has messed up. This isn’t just a matter of making someone apologize, it’s become a behavioral issue that is clearly disrupting team dynamic and needs to be addressed on a deeper level.

(Not that they really need to be a team in a combat sense much anymore, but they’re all still friends, aren’t they? And friends shouldn’t do whatever the hell Yosuke thinks he’s doing right now.)

Souji sighs and forces himself to look up at his two friends still in the room. “Are you both okay?” he asks first, because that’s the most important thing, even above Yosuke’s bullshit. He looks from one to the other, scanning them with a leader’s eye honed from months in battle.

“Physically?” says Chie, “Yeah, I guess,” She looks to Yukiko, who gives her a quick nod.

Yukiko’s expression is tight as she tilts her head in a way that makes her look like she’s talking to both of them at once – which she likely is. “He _tried_ to pinch my skirt,” she says, and Souji feels his eyes go wide. Her mouth twists. “He didn’t actually touch me, though.”

Chie’s face darkens. “Good thing he didn’t ‘cuz I’d have kicked him so hard his junk would have fallen off.” Her fists clench at her sides the same way they do in battle right as she’s bracing herself for a takedown kick, and Souji instinctively swallows against the way the gesture makes his throat constrict.

He holds his breath just a little too long to be comfortable, trying and not-quite succeeding to steel himself for the conversation ahead. “What happened?” he asks, and his voice isn’t real, isn’t his. It’s ‘Leader’, ‘Friend’, one of the dozens of masks he wears when he needs to (he always needs to) when he has a specific task to complete (he always does) and needs to push his own mind as far way from everything as possible (like always).

Chie and Yukiko look at each other, seeming to silently decide who should go first before Chie refocuses on Souji and squares her shoulders. “Okay. So you know how Yosuke’s been a jerk ever since the cultural festival?”

Souji nods. Of course the girls have seen it, too, he thinks; how could they not have when the four of them all sit right next to each other?

He already wishes this were over.

“Well, every time Yukiko or I has tried to call him out on it he just gets all defensive and blows us off.” Chie pulls her phone from the pocket of her green jacket and holds it up like a prop. “I’ve been texting him for _days_ trying to get him to tell me what’s going on and he doesn’t answer! He just sends me those crappy dirty jokes of his or says something really evasive, like…” (and here she drops her voice in a sarcastic imitation of Yosuke’s), “…’can’t talk, I’m at work!’ or ‘lol you’re crazy, Chie!’” She clenches her teeth and makes an aggravated noise in the back of her throat as she roughly shoves her phone back into her pocket. “And the thing is, I _know_ he didn’t work on Wednesday, because I had to stop by Junes for my mom and I ran into Teddie, who told me Yosuke had the day off!”

_I knew it._

It feels like the wind has been knocked out of his lungs. Everything he’d been hoping he was wrong about has been thrown directly back at him; the last trickle of faith he’d been so desperately clinging to, the hope that his partner might _not_ have been lying to his face and avoiding him, it all disintegrates like paper in a blaze.

He thinks maybe if he wasn’t sitting down, if he couldn’t feel the chair, hard and solid beneath his legs, then he might just fall away and be swallowed up, too.

Oblivious to Souji’s encroaching disassociation, Chie sits back with a scowl and snorts harshly through her nose. “And his ‘jokes’? They’ve been _really_ bad this week. Like, they were never _good,_ but they’ve been getting _worse_ – now they’re just straight up gross and it’s been making me _super_ uncomfortable.”

It’s like there are screws being twisted into his skin; cold and metallic and so sharp that it’s barely painful but still stings with the bite of bitter frost. Nervous energy crackles along his limbs as though the flight half of his fight-or-flight instincts is trying to wrest away any control he has left over his body. He doesn’t want to hear this.

Yukiko nods, eyes narrow. “He’s been doing similar things to me, too. I ran into him on my way home yesterday and when I tried to ask him why he looked so sad, he made some comment about me, ‘cheering him up.’ Then he ran off.” She shakes her head. “Even _I_ knew he was being inappropriate. I let it go at the time because it seemed like he was just trying to distract me. ”

Chie tilts her head. “Has he been sending you weird texts, too?”

“Only when I text him first.” Yukiko’s expression goes flat. “He asked me if I had any pictures from the pageant but when I told him I didn’t he asked me to send him a new picture instead.”

The look on Chie’s face implies that she would very much like to roundhouse kick something, but is managing to hold back with just the thinnest thread of restraint. Souji surreptitiously pulls his legs a little further from her reach. He _would_ almost flinch when she turns her focus back to him, but everything is rippling slightly, slowly, like the air is gradually turning to water and he’s already under the surface.

“So yeaaaaah…” she drawls, irritation simmering in the lower notes of her voice. “We tried to corner him this morning; two against one, right? We thought maybe we could get him to explain himself—“

“Because it’s obvious he’s hurting _you_ , too,” Yukiko cuts in, looking at Souji with something like protectiveness, and it catches him off guard so badly that he forgets to exhale again.

Chie nods emphatically. “Right! And we figured if he’s pulling that evasive crap with us then there’s no _way_ you’re having any better luck, what with him running off like his butt’s on fire every time you come near.” She pauses, grimaces – a scrunch of her nose and a turning of her lips. “Eheh. Uhm, sorry.”

Souji blinks. Even before learning about their own messed-up dealings with Yosuke this past week, he wasn’t surprised that his friends have caught on to the way Souji and Yosuke’s friendship has been fraying. They aren’t blind, after all, and by this point they’ve all known each other long enough that it would be hard not to notice that _something_ was up. No, what surprises him is the way Yukiko had seemed more visibly upset about the effects on _him_ than she was about the things Yosuke had said to her, the way Chie makes it sound like she wanted to confront the other boy on _his_ behalf just as much as theirs. One some level he knows his friends care, or at least the stubbornly hopefully pieces of him that still exist after all these years have wanted to believe they did, but knowing and having it proven – even in as small and heavy a gesture as this – are two very different things.

He doesn’t like that this surprises him, just like he didn’t like that he was surprised by Naoto. He’s pretty sure this proves his theory that he doesn’t know how to be a decent friend in return.

He’s forgotten to respond, it seems, but Chie continues. “So we corner him,” she repeats, “and he gets this really funny look on his face and acts like he wants to bolt, but when he _can’t_ he tries to make a crack about my legs and how I should ‘lay off the meat’.”

“And then he compared her legs to _mine.”_ Yukiko taps her short, blunt nails across the top of her desk in annoyance. “Which is when he tried to pinch my skirt and I slapped him.”

“And then you showed up and he ran off,” Chie finishes, before adding, “Or, well, you saw that part.”

Souji just nods again. He can’t do anything else, he feels almost paralyzed. The thought of Yosuke being _purposely_ horrible is so beyond anything he’s ever thought his friend capable of. He wants to cling to what Yukiko said about it seemingly like Yosuke had been pulling a distraction tactic, but even if that’s what the stunt in the hallway was, too, it’s still over the line. As far as he knows, Yosuke has never tried to _physically_ do anything to anybody, and pinching a skirt is pretty minor compared to some of the stories Yukiko has told of drunken businessmen at the inn, but _still._

Everything just feels so _wrong;_ not just in the sense that Yosuke is suddenly wildly out of character, but just… _everything._ Why the change at all? And if it was going to happen eventually, why now of all times? Souji’s mind circles itself, trying to find something to latch onto because the whole situation is missing more than a few pieces and the part of him that just spent several months working to solve a murder mystery is still there, not yet inactive. He can’t tell if it’s only that or if there is still something in him that refuses to let go of his partner even now. Yosuke had inserted himself into Souji’s life so seamlessly that it’s hard for Souji to see what’s left of himself past the jagged outline Yosuke’s departure has left in him.

But he can’t think, and so he’s left sitting there in his own head, grasping at straws and praying one of them will have the answers he desperately hopes are there.

He must have been unresponsive for too long (again), because he blinks and catches the end of the worried look shared between his two friends. He forces himself back out of his thoughts before one of the girls can call him on it and inhales through his mouth to stall for time as he pulls up something to say.

Yukiko beats him to the punch. “Souji-kun… Are you alright?”

He clicks his mouth shut so quickly his teeth sting. The words _“I’m fine”_ sit uncomfortably close to the tip of his tongue and he swallows them back. It would be all too easy to admit just how much like a slow-acting poison Yosuke’s silence, his behavior, has felt; the sinking, sick sensation growing and spreading over the course of the week until Souji can barely breathe. He swallows that back, too. “I’m… concerned,” he settles on, and Yukiko nods in agreement.

“Do you know what might be going on with him, even a little?” she asks, and beside her, Chie gives him an oddly sad look. “This isn’t the Yosuke-kun we know.”

Chie glances from Yukiko to Souji and adds, uncharacteristically quiet, “Yeah. I mean, he’s a pig right _now_ but he’s still one of us. We’re _worried.”_

As hurt as he is, and as much as he’s ready (or wishes he _could_ be ready) to wall off that tattered bit of his heart, Souji can’t disagree. There is another whispering part of him, softer than the one hissing doubt and pain, that _cares_ about Yosuke, wants him to be alright, even if Souji isn’t. He always did like making people happy.

Souji keeps his back straight but lowers his eyes, unable to hold his shield against the anxious sympathy painted across his friends’ features. He shakes his head. “No,” he admits, and it’s both a relief to admit and a stone in his heart. Saying it out loud always makes it more real, less like a bad dream; the wound might be lanced for a moment but it still _bleeds._ He sighs, and it’s a shaky, defeated sound. “I don’t. And no it’s not. Whatever is happening, he won’t let me help.”

Yukiko’s shoulders slump, echoed by the way Chie’s face seems to fall even more. They share another look between them – Souji can see them both in his peripherals but he cannot decipher the silent exchange.

If only Yosuke could see the way his friends worry about him, Souji thinks, then maybe he’d stop pushing them away like this. It’s been clear from the very beginning that Souji’s partner has some heavy duty self esteem issues, (his shadow alone had been more than a hint at just _how_ Yosuke saw himself), so it isn’t a stretch to think maybe Yosuke doesn’t know just how valuable he is to his friends, to the team, to _Souji,_ and it hurts somewhere deep, like a broken bone.

Souji feels the black tendrils in his mind starting to tug him lower. Unable to think of anything to say and too afraid of sinking deeper into his own quagmire of negative thoughts, he glances at the clock in case time has decided to be merciful and lunch break is almost over. No such luck.

He frowns. His sense of time is shot. His sense of reality is cracking as well, but time is more important when on a schedule – or when he just wants the day to end. With nothing he can do with the little time remaining, and too much time left to just sit in silence, Souji quietly digs out the bento he’d brought and holds it out in offering towards the girls. He’d brought extra, intending to share it with someone anyway – possibly Kanji – and it’s been a short while since he’s been able to bring anything for Chie or Yukiko. “Does anybody want this?” he murmurs, still not quite able to return his gaze to their faces.

There is a stunted exhale overlapped by what might be a hushed, _“Souji-kun,”_ but he doesn’t raise his eyes from the box in his hand. He is aware – faintly – of how strange it must look for him to switch gears so abruptly, since the others aren’t privy to his coiling lines of thought. Whatever they think of it, though, no one says anything aloud. In fact, a long beat of silence passes before slim, delicate fingers – _Yukiko_ – finally reach out and take the bento from his grasp.

Suddenly Chie’s voice is forcibly-bright, a bottled kind of blue sky amidst dark clouds, plastic-happy and overenthusiastic as she says, “Aw hell yeah! We haven’t had lunch together in _ages!”_ There is a movement on he edge of Souji’s vision that looks suspiciously like an exaggerated fist pump.

His breath catches in a huff as he exhales through his nose, like the mimicry of a chuckle that comes unbidden and tugs inside his chest. It’s enough to let him flick his gaze upwards.

Chie is grinning at him, wide and strained, but it reaches her eyes nonetheless. Beside her, Yukiko holds the now lidless bento between them with a well-crafted smile stretched across her own face. There is still a tight sort of sadness around the edges, but the longer she holds the smile in place the duller those edges become.

“Yes,” she says, and her voice lilts upwards in a very deliberate way that is meant to sound easier than it is. “Have we ever done this with all three of us together? I can’t remember.”

“Hey, no, I don’t think we have! What took us so long?”

The huff of breathy laugh that slips out is a little stronger this time, a little more solid. The weight in his chest is still there, but in this moment, with Yukiko passing the bento off to Chie so she can dig for her chopsticks and Chie “stealthily” grabbing a chunk of meat with her fingertips to pop into her mouth, Souji thinks the weight might be manageable. If only for now.

 _Thank you,_ he tells them silently. To say it out loud would be to puncture the illusion they’ve worked so hard to create, and he doesn’t want to ruin the kindness he’s being given. He knows what they’re doing; he’s grateful.

The three of them pick at the food – Chie going for the meat and Yukiko the vegetables while Souji mostly just pokes the rice – until the break runs out. There is still some left at the end, mostly because Souji couldn’t muster up the will to be hungry, but the girls (Chie) have made a much larger dent than he, so it’s not a waste, at least. He gives them a drained, faint smile as the room fills back up with their classmates and is pleasantly startled to find it comes easier than he thought it would.

Yukiko smiles back, eyes crinkling, and Chie shoots him a lopsided grin and a thumbs up. There is a fizzy, pink-yellow warmth that flows along the Priestess and Chariot arcana, and while the flood of light and golden tingling that follows a rising rank doesn’t come, he can feel the threads winding tighter together. It’s comforting – a reminder that even if his Magician bond snaps and dissolves, there are still connections there, he still has friends.

It’s so hard to remember sometimes when all his life there has been a cold, aching loneliness nested deep inside his heart, familiar in a way that old wounds are. But now there is something to chase the hollowness away when the ache threatens to overwhelm him at the loss of his former partner, and Souji allows himself a few precious moments to bask in that sliver of sunlight. He may not share secrets with Chie and Yukiko, but somehow, right now, their brand of protectiveness is just as wonderful.

The warmth stays with him through the duration of the lesson, and distracts him long enough that he doesn’t notice until the start of the next period that Yosuke has yet to return to the classroom.

 

\---

 

Classes end for the day and still Yosuke does not reappear. Chie and Yukiko haven’t quite gotten over their ire and irritation from earlier, understandably, but there is clear worry there, and nowhere to direct it except at Souji. He appreciates it, wishes he could accept it, handle it like a normal person, but it’s something he hasn’t gotten used to yet and it overwhelms him. It’s comforting but also just the tiniest bit suffocating. That’s why, when they ask if he’d like to walk with them while they go run errands together, he politely declines.

Under better circumstances he would happily spend time with them, would be hard-pressed to say no to something like walking with friends, but he isn’t sure how long he can pretend not to be silently flaking apart inside. He thinks they understand, because Chie gives him a gentle punch to the shoulder – so light it’s more like a tap – and Yukiko gives him a kind smile with eyes that look a little too deeply into him.

“We don’t have any more large groups booked at the inn until mid-month,” she says, (more quietly than a casual statement should warrant), “so I should be pretty free this weekend.”

“You should come train with me again sometime,” Chie chimes in, and Souji notices that her fist hasn’t left his shoulder yet. It’s just sort of resting there, knuckles lightly digging in to the meat of his arm. “I’m gonna be down by the river all morning on Sunday. You’re welcome to join.” She taps him once more with the backs of her fingers before finally moving her hand.

Souji smiles at them. It’s weak, probably, but grateful, and he hopes they can see the honesty on his face as well as they can see his crumbling edges. (And he’s slowly discovering that it isn’t quite so scary right now that people can see the hairline cracks forming along his paper-mache faces, because no one that’s seen them so far has commented. As long as he doesn’t have to acknowledge it out loud he thinks he might be fine.)

_It’s fine._

_I’m fine._

He walks with Yukiko and Chie to the shoe lockers, where the girls both shoot him a final knowing look before they say their goodbyes and head out together, leaving Souji to gather his thoughts as well as his things. He loiters for a few minutes. Fishing his phone out from where it’s been resting all day with the power still off at the bottom of his school bag, he debates on whether he should turn it back on or not. Eventually he decides against it and drops the phone back into the depths of his bag.

He isn’t in any real hurry to get home, though he also doesn’t exactly trust himself to take his time lest he get too deeply lost in his own head; there is so much he needs to process after this morning, after lunch, the whole damn _week._ It’s daunting, and he has no idea what kind of person he’s going to have to be to get through this giant, hulking mess. He wonders how thick his walls will have to be by the time this is over, and whether he’ll still have a best friend.

He isn’t certain he can fix this – isn’t certain at this point that he has the strength to try. He wants to, though, and he thinks that might make him stupid. Or desperate. Or both.

Souji sucks in a breath between his teeth and forcibly grounds himself. _This,_ this is what he was afraid of, the creeping wave of negative thoughts that start off small and contemplative and then deceptively turn to something much darker, much heavier, until he’s buried up to this throat in dark water and it’s too late for him to pull back.

 _No._ He refuses to sink right now, not in the middle of school grounds where people can see. One foot in front of the other, he starts to move. He wishes now that he _had_ gone with Yukiko and Chie, if only for the distraction they would have given him.

_One foot in front of the other, one step at a time, keep going. Just keep going, don’t think…_

“Yo, Senpai!”

Souji stops and snaps around at the familiar voice, a brilliant, soothing flash of gold tugging at the Emperor bond inside his soul.

Kanji waves at him from a short distance away, expression bright and open and _happy._ When he sees that Souji has stopped walking he quickens his pace to close the gap. “Heh. Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he calls as he approaches, clearly glad to have been proven wrong.

Souji is so, _so_ happy to see him right now. Like Naoto – but for different reasons – Kanji is _safe,_ is _good_ , and even after the revelation on Tuesday, Kanji hasn’t once tried to pry. He could hold it together around Kanji, he thinks.

Souji must look as ragged as he feels, because Kanji’s face falls a bit as he comes to a stop in front of him. “Everything okay, Senpai?” he asks. His plucked-thin brows furrow slightly, curious concern lacing his features.

How Souji was ever nervous around this human ball of mochi, he’ll never know.

Souji doesn’t want to lie to him, not when Kanji’s expression is so earnest. The shield he’d used with Chie and Yukiko was different; they’d somehow seen past it, just a little, and forgiven him for it due to circumstance. To hide behind it now with _Kanji_ would feel wrong.

He sighs. “I’m better now,” he says, deciding to stay at least a little vague. It’s not his place to discuss the hallway incident this morning, anyway.

Kanji gives him a skeptical look; Souji huffs a quiet, humorless chuckle. “It’s nothing. There was an issue this morning but it’s over now.” Well, at least until Yosuke shows back up, but that’s something to think about later when Souji isn’t fighting back the disassociation for the millionth time this week.

Kanji still looks somewhat unconvinced, but he thankfully chooses not to dig. Instead, he stares at Souji for a few more seconds before apparently letting it go. He shrugs. “Okay, well, as long as you’re alright now I guess.”

Souji manages a tired smile. “I am. Thank you, Kanji.” (And if he sees the faintest dusting of pink across his friend’s ear-tips then he stifles the flattered surprise and keeps the knowledge to himself.)

“Y-yeah, no problem, Senpai.” He looks away for a moment and clears his throat. “Anyway, I was wonderin’ if you wanted to walk together?”

(Souji shouldn’t find it adorable, but he does, and he promptly tucks the thought safely away and leaves it be.)

He nods, a tiny, grateful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I would like that.”

Kanji doesn’t verbally respond, just mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like _“damnit, too cute,”_ and takes a few steps in the direction of the gate.

Souji falls into step beside him, easily catching up.

 

 

They walk unhurriedly, meandering, sometimes slowing to a stop for a few seconds before continuing on. It’s casual, comfortable (after Kanji gets over his blushing), and it’s exactly the kind of balm Souji needed. He feels the dark spiral in his head slide back, back, until it’s only a weak tingle in the furthest parts of his mind rather than the creeping talons it had been before.

They chat as they make their way to the river out of some kind of absentminded habit, the topics varying from knitting (which Souji wants to learn) to cats to gardening (which _Kanji_ wants to learn) to anything that comes to mind. As they talk, Souji notices that Kanji is more animated than he’s used to seeing. Kanji’s face is expressive and cheerful, his smile easy as he explains some of his personal projects, and it occurs to Souji that Kanji probably doesn’t get much of a chance to talk about the things he enjoys. If Kanji was still guarding himself before out of fear of being judged, having come out as bisexual and receiving nothing but acceptance in return must have broken down that particular section of wall, which Souji now has the privilege of peering through. That odd kind of pride flairs up in him again, and Souji feels his smile stretching wider as Kanji finishes telling a story about making his own sewing patterns.

He wonders just how often in his life Kanji has felt comfortable enough around a person to be this open with them, to talk about his love for cute things without shame. Likely not often, he thinks, and sadness pricks at his ribs. He’s glad he can be a source of happiness for his friend. Kanji certainly deserves it.

By this point they’ve almost reached the floodplain, the familiar stretch of grass and water slowly starting to come into view. Souji is just about to ask if Kanji would consider taking a commission for a gift for Nanako when there comes a sudden thrumming along the Fortune bond. Delighted, he looks up just in time to spot Naoto heading along the path in their direction. He smiles.

“Naoto, hello,” he calls, raising a hand in greeting. Beside him, Kanji chokes on his tongue and turns a glorious shade of dusty pink.

Naoto returns the gesture. “Hello, Senpai, Kanji-kun” they say when they’re close enough to speak without raising their voice, nodding at both of them in turn.

Kanji, to his credit, doesn’t go scurrying away like he usually does when faced with his crush. (Or, well… _one_ of his crushes? Souji isn’t sure if it’s _just_ Naoto at this point, but he’s certainly very amused.) Fighting a smirk, Souji watches his blond friend square his shoulders and force himself into some kind of casual pose that… doesn’t actually look very casual.

“H-hey,” he sputters, and the way his voice cracks _ever so slightly_ is endearing as hell.

Souji wonders if he’s close enough now with either of them to start giving them gentle nudges towards one another. With that fluffy thought threatening to give his smile away, Souji decides to spare Kanji’s nerves for a moment and do the talking. He’s good at this kind of thing, after all. “Would you like to walk with us?” he asks, natural as anything. It doesn’t escape his notice that Naoto has to flick their gaze over to him from where it’s been locked on Kanji.

Naoto gives a thoughtful hum. “Well, I _was_ doing something, but I suppose it’s finished now.” They smile. “Alright, why not?”

They take the free spot on Souji’s left so that he’s flanked on either side by his friends. It’s a good feeling – one he is selfishly going to enjoy until they all have to part ways.

“What were you busy with?” he asks as they all start moving again. Kanji keeps glancing across him over at Naoto on his other side and Souji as has to keep his face in check. He slows his pace just enough that he’s half a step behind them, making it easier for them to see each other past his shoulders. “If I may ask.”

Naoto’s expression twists a little. It’s an odd look, one that is very much a mixture of their ‘Detective Face’ and something else. “To be honest, I was tailing Yosuke-senpai.”

_Oh._

Suddenly the warm and happy feeling that’s been buzzing through him sinks to someplace cold and nervous. He’d successfully managed to forget about Yosuke for a while, thanks to Kanji; he’d been perfectly content keeping it that for a while longer.

Trying not to let his fallen mood show, he holds the neutral mask in place even as he lets the smile drop. He has no doubt Naoto has already picked up on it.

It’s Kanji that spares _him_ this time by asking, “Huh? Yosuke-senpai? What’re you followin’ him for?”

Naoto looks over at him. Souji spots the split second where their eyes flick up to study him before switching back to focus on Kanji once more. “I saw him heading to the roof during lunch but I never saw him come back down. Then after classes were over I spotted him by the shoe lockers.”

Souji startles a bit at that. Yosuke had still been at school? When he hadn’t returned to the classroom, Souji had assumed his former partner had just skipped out entirely and left. Apparently not. _What would_ _be the point of that?_ he wonders, and it’s bitterer than he expected. _Why not just leave? That’s all he’s been doing all week._

But Naoto isn’t finished speaking, it seems. “He was acting strangely; it almost seemed like he was watching _you,_ Souji-senpai, because I watched him hiding behind the lockers while you were talking to Yukiko-senpai and Chie-senpai. Then when you left he followed you, so I followed him.”

Naoto studies his face for a moment and Souji can’t even begin to imagine what he looks like. Yosuke had followed him? How? Granted, it wasn’t like he had been entirely outside his own head after Chie and Yukiko had left, but he would have noticed at some point, right? With as hyper-tuned to Yosuke as he’s been in the past, then surely…

“Wait,” Kanji says from over on his right. From the corner of his eye he can see Kanji looking at him, mouth twisted downward in a fashion similar to Naoto’s.

Feigning normalcy, he turns his head to give Kanji his attention. Kanji in turn tick his gaze back over to Naoto as if he hadn’t just been giving his senpai a curious stare.

“Where was he? Because when I caught up with Senpai in front of the school I didn’t see Yosuke-senpai anywhere.”

Naoto hums, their lips a tight line. “Yes, I saw all of that. While Yosuke-senpai wasn’t exactly _close_ behind Souji-senpai, he also ran off as soon as you approached. That neither of you noticed him doesn’t surprise me.”

Kanji’s brows furrow, his eyes narrowing beneath them. “That’s…”

“Suspicious?” Naoto supplies, “Worrying? Yes, I agree.”

Souji doesn’t contribute; he’s too busy trying to keep himself grounded in the conversation at hand and not drift away into his own thoughts. He doesn’t know how to process this, doesn’t know what to think. There are so many questions now and he’s tired, he’s just _so_ tired and hurt and he’s sick of being tired and hurt _things were supposed to be different here._

“So where’s he now?” Kanji looks around, even checking behind them as if he expects Yosuke to pop out of the bushes and attempt to scare them all like a bad Halloween prank.

Souji hunches his shoulders and tucks his face into the collar of his jacket.

This time when Naoto speaks, though they’re responding to Kanji, their eyes linger on Souji – he can just barely see it past the fabric of his collar. In a way it’s almost… _okay,_ because it gives him something to focus on, even if he doesn’t want eye contact right now. He watches Naoto chew at the corner of their lip while they look at him, likely debating how much they want to say.

After a moment, they finally reply, “He was heading towards the river when I lost track of him. I believe he might still be somewhere nearby.”

Souji freezes in the middle of the path, feeling the blood drain from his face. His lungs stop working, just _stop;_ he cannot remember how to inhale, doesn’t have the ability to exhale, he just stands there with wide eyes and numb lips and burning lungs.

No. No no no, that’s not good, that’s _not_ good. Souji isn’t anywhere near mentally prepared to run into Yosuke right now. Not with everything he’s found out today, not when he just learned that Yosuke, despite having been running from and avoiding him for _days,_ was just secretly following him around less than an hour ago. How the hell is he supposed to process that?

Both Naoto and Kanji have stopped now as well, and are staring at him in concern. “Senpai?” Kanji calls, unsure. “You okay there?”

He feels himself nod but it’s a robotic response, not one of his own bidding. Naoto and Kanji exchange a look.

“Perhaps we should find a different route to take?” Naoto suggests, and Kanji nods in agreement.

He takes a step closer to Souji, raising a hand as if to reach out, when the hurried sound of approaching footsteps becomes audible over the ambience of the nearby river.

Naoto stiffens, and Souji feels his stomach drop out when a familiar voice shouts, “Heeeey! Partner!”

_Perfect timing._

The words are tense, drawn-out, laced with a nervous, forced casualness that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He immediately snaps his attention towards the voice, Naoto and Kanji echoing the movement in his peripherals.

Up ahead, from the direction the three of them had been heading in and appearing from seemingly nowhere, is Yosuke. He’s power walking, moving so quickly towards them that he’s nearly jogging, making Souji feel the phantom terror of being closed in on like prey in a corner – like he’s a child again, small and frightened as an angry parent looms. Souji instinctively takes a half-step back.

Naoto takes a full step in response and moves themself in front of him. A second later, Kanji does the same.

“I didn’t realize he was so close,” Naoto whispers through their teeth. It’s a harsh sound, one that’s reminiscent of the way they speak inside the TV world when the group goes (or still went) training – low and tense.

Kanji straightens his spine, bringing himself up to his full height. “What the hell’s goin’ on?” he hisses, and the part of Souji that hears all of this is shocked and almost desperately grateful that Kanji would step to defend him even while having no idea why.

His reaction to Naoto is similar, but he also knows that Naoto at least has an inkling that something is _wrong._

Case in point, when Naoto hisses back, “I’m not sure, but clearly _something_ is.”

They stand that way, both Naoto and Kanji just in front of him and each with a shoulder between him and their oncoming teammate, like a living, two-person wall of defense.

Yosuke nearly skids to a stop before them. His face is a wild shade of blotchy red; extreme even for the chill and the way he’d just been moving. In his eyes is a kind of desperate mania that only grows more intense as he snaps his gaze to Souji just over Naoto’s shoulder. “Hey, cool, there you are, just who I needed to see.” He moves sharply, like he’s going to try and step around Naoto or maybe reach across them to pull Souji away, and something about his eyes, the way it looks like Yosuke means to grab at him, suddenly has the anxious, tight feeling inside Souji’s ribcage hatching into full-blown _fear._

He doesn’t even know why.

_Except **yes** , you do. _

Old terrors come scratching at the base of this skull, threatening to overlay his current situation with others long passed – like a dozen images superimposed on a single camera shot.

Naoto steps to the side to intercept Yosuke, blocking his raised arm with their shoulder. Now behind them, Kanji moves forward and puts his own arm out, slung low so that Souji is ushered more securely behind him again. There is not an ounce of hesitation in either of their movements, both of them ramrod straight and moving fluidly, silently, like the synchronized unit they have trained to be in the TV world. Except this time, they’re in _front_ of their leader, not just beside.

“Hello, Yosuke-senpai,” Naoto says, voice dropped to the smooth, quiet tenor of their Detective Prince guise. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, Senpai, you look kinda jacked. You okay?”

Tense as they are, neither Kanji nor Naoto sounds angry or defensive; in fact, other than Naoto’s pitch, they speak as if everything is perfectly normal and it’s just another typical day running into a friend outside of school. It helps a little – a sliver of calm against the surge of muscle-memory fear thrumming in Souji’s bones.

 _This is so stupid,_ he thinks, berates himself. They shouldn’t have to defend him, shouldn’t have to protect their leader from a threat that’s probably only in his head. (He should be able to handle this _himself,_ for one thing.) The loyalty isn’t any different from what he’s seen after weeks and months of fighting together, but here, outside of the TV world is different, _different,_ because in the TV they fight for their lives; out here they don’t need to do that. Out here he can’t summon Izanagi – out here he isn’t valuable as a commander, there’s no _need._

And it’s clear that neither of them knows what’s going on; hell, even _he_ doesn’t know what’s going on, only that Yosuke has been acting like a completely different person all week and that right now his (former?) best friend is erratic and wild-eyed and it _scares_ him. But apparently that last part is enough for Naoto and Kanji – who can’t possibly know just how irrationally freaked Souji actually _is –_ because here they are, standing squarely between him and someone who is still _their_ friend, too, as far as Souji knows, with wide stances and cautiously amiable voices.

Yosuke glances at Naoto, then Kanji, as if finally noticing them. “Oh hi guys,” he says, and it’s rushed, breathy, like he’s only sparing them the absolute minimum amount of attention. He switches his focus back to Souji, who has to fight not to take another step back.

The way Yosuke is staring, he thinks there should be yellow looking back at him instead of unblinking hazel.

Yosuke rocks forward on the balls of his feet, like he wants to try and reach for Souji again but is holding himself back. He tilts his head and licks absently at his bottom lip. “Hey uh, is it cool if I steal him from you two for a bit? I really need to talk to him.”

“Shouldn’t you be askin’ Souji-senpai if he _wants_ to go with you?” Kanji asks, genuinely innocent. “Cuz yeah, we’re just walkin’ but it seems kinda rude to talk around him like that.” He glances back at Souji, eyes questioning.

Souji barely sees it, fixated as he is on Yosuke – like a rabbit in headlights. His face feels numb, likely pale, and whatever his expression is doing must be the answer to Kanji’s unasked question because Kanji suddenly shifts his weight to better shield him.

Naoto must also notice Souji’s inability to answer, because without even looking behind themself they add, “While I certainly am not trying to police Senpai’s interactions, I have to agree with Kanji-kun.” Souji can only see part of Naoto’s face from the angle he’s at behind them, but what he _can_ see has melted into something concerned yet increasingly wary. “You’re also more than welcome to join us if you want to, Yosuke-senpai,” they say, and it almost sounds less like an offer and more like a tentative suggestion.

Yosuke’s expression darkens in frustration, his face going tight and his jaw clenching as he keeps his features steady. It’s more unnerving than any shadow Souji has ever seen.

“Yeah, no, sorry, Naoto,” he says in that same rushed, breathy way as before, only this time it’s laced with the tension of grit teeth. He tries to smile; it looks like bared fangs. “Thanks for the offer and all that but I really kinda need to talk to Partner _alone,_ you know what I mean?”

Naoto tilts their chin forward and stares him down.

Yosuke stares back for a moment, unmoving, before he apparently concedes the challenge and turns his feral gaze back to Souji, who has unconsciously moved to where he’s almost pressed against Kanji’s spine.

Souji wishes he could remember how to stand like a fighter, how to conjure up that confidence that somehow comes naturally to him in the TV world. He can’t. It’s awful and embarrassing, hiding behind his friends like this, but Yosuke isn’t a shadow, isn’t a formless swath of darkness and negative human emotions that Souji can just swing a sword at and call it done. Fighting otherworldly creatures is one thing, something he’s trained _himself_ to do. Holding his own against _people_ on the other hand – especially someone he should be able to trust – is entirely another, and it’s something the _world_ has taught him he absolutely is _not_ allowed to do.

“Partner,” Yosuke calls, voice borderline pleading and pitched in a way that is probably supposed to be coaxing, harmless. It sounds exactly like what Souji would imagine a starving monster beneath a child’s bed to sound like as it convinced its dinner to join it in the dark below.

Yosuke takes a step forward. “Dude, come on…”

Souji _flinches._ “No…” he whispers, so faint it’s just a ghost of a breath, and he doesn’t _mean_ to, it just _comes out_ before he can even think to reel it in. And it’s so, _so_ quiet – nothing more than a half-gone memory dripping from his lips, and it takes Souji a second to realize he’d even said anything at all.

But close as he is, Kanji hears it.

Hesitance gone, Kanji positions himself completely in front of his senpai and rolls his shoulders back, pushing his chest out to give his already-decent height even more of a presence. “I don’t think he wants to, Yosuke-senpai,” he says, and in his words is the steely resolution of the boy that fought off a biker gang so many months ago.

Naoto must hear the difference, because their shoulders twitch like they’re mildly startled and they glance behind themself to give Kanji – and in turn, Souji – a tense, questioning look.

In that moment, that singular frame of time where his guards are distracted, Souji sees Yosuke’s threadbare patience _snap._

Hazel eyes _(not yellow not yellow not yellow)_ zero in on Kanji’s face, a frustrated, irritated grimace curling at Yosuke’s mouth like a tightening screw. “Look,” he growls, voice cracking, “this is _important,_ okay? You can try and get in his pants or whatever the fuck you’re doing later, but right now I _need_ to talk to him!”

Naoto actually _gasps,_ the sound nearly drowned out by Kanji’s own exclamation of shock.

(Something pulses through the bonds in Souji’s soul.)

Everything happens like flashes of a strobe light, the time between moments obscured and blotted out so that it feels like sound and color and movement are all simultaneous, but split into freeze-frame stills that clumsily overlap. Souji feels the blood in his veins slow with it, suspending him outside the chaos as if he were a bird on a windowsill.

Naoto and Kanji are a whirl of voices, indignant and aghast and rightfully appalled.

“Yosuke-senpai, what in the—?!”

“OI! The hell?! It ain’t like that—!”

“—what is _wrong_ with you?!”

“—you got a problem with me ‘n Souji-senpai bein’ _friends?”_

(There is another pulse along the bonds.)

Yosuke hunches inward, poised almost like he’s coiling for battle. “’Friends’,” he spits. He slinks to the side in the confusion, weaving as if he’s just shifting his weight to keep the other two in front of him while subtly making his way closer to Kanji’s side, closer to where Souji now stares slack jawed at the unrecognizable mess that was once his closest friend.

 _This isn’t right, this isn’t right!_ Why can’t he _move?_

Yosuke slides back half a step to avoid Kanji leaning low and forward into his space with fist held ready. The movement successfully puts him around Naoto’s other side, just barely too far away for Souji to reach out and touch. “Right, sure, that’s why you’ve been all over him the past week, isn’t it? Completely innocent, no ulterior motive whatsoever—“

“What the _fuck?!”_

“Yosuke-senpai, you are _entirely_ out of line—“

“Like hell I am!”

(Another pulse. It’s almost like a heartbeat now.)

Yosuke dodges an arm swung his way, ducking under it and wrapping his fingers tight and burning around Souji’s frozen wrist. “Come _on,_ dude; let’s get out of here and find somewhere _safer—“_

(The pulse becomes a pounding. Izanagi roars inside his mind.)

Quick as the lightning he commands, Souji’s _everything_ flares back into life, shattering the strobe effect of his perception of time as something hot and _angry_ surges beneath his skin. He twists his arm like he’s a statue turned to vibrant flesh and turns it in Yosuke’s grasp so that he’s the one now digging his blunted nails into the other boy’s wrist.

 _“No,”_ he seethes, and for a moment the whole world seems to tint a glowing, vicious shade of _yellow._

Too far. Yosuke’s gone too far; months of fighting together, of Kanji proving himself over and over, both in battle and as a friend, of being _far_ too lenient of Yosuke’s homophobic barbs. Everything they’ve all been through together, and Yosuke _still_ thinks of Kanji as something vile?

 _And you let it happen,_ Souji’s mind whispers. _You let him say those things and now look where we are._ The pit of his stomach turns sour.

He grinds his teeth. _Not anymore._

He throws Yosuke’s hand off of him, ignoring the other boy’s shocked outburst.

“Dude! What the hell?”

_“Quiet.”_

Souji’s voice is dark, deceptively calm. He feels it rumble in his own chest, vibrating like unspent electricity feverishly searching for a conductor. The noise around him instantly snuffs out; the cacophony of overlapping voices, the shuffle of bodies and their feet against the path, even the rush of the river appears to obey him and dull to nothing in his ears. He pulls himself up – spine, shoulders, neck – until he’s standing at his full height and looking down at the boy slowly turning white as a sheet before him. He’s never been more than an inch or so taller than Yosuke, but now, staring him down with a rising wave of newfound courage and _wrath,_ Souji seems to tower over him.

_Never again._

“How dare you,” he whispers, and in the sudden ringing quiet it sounds like distant thunder. He takes a step forward. Beside him, Naoto and Kanji fall back. Their eyes are wide, fixed on him as though mesmerized, and in his peripherals he can seem them instinctively take up their usual battle formation; not poised for attack, but readily defaulting to their positions behind their commander. He takes another step.

Yosuke looks absolutely shell-shocked. He gapes at Souji as he approaches, still standing exactly as he’d been when Souji had shoved his hand away. “P-partn—?”

_“Don’t.”_

Yosuke jerks like he’s been burned and takes a half step back. “Come on, man, what’s—?”

But Souji cuts him off again. “I _said,”_ he hisses, “be _quiet.”_

Yosuke closes his mouth with an audible _‘click.’_

 _“What,”_ Souji says, dark and resolute as iron, “is your problem?” He advances another step, crowding into Yosuke’s bubble, and the other boy quickly shuffles backwards a few more feet. Souji holds his ground. “It’s been _months,_ Yosuke, and you’re still on this? How _fucking dare you.”_

The stunned faces he gets in response feels validating – he knows he doesn’t curse out loud very often, let alone like this, and the aura of authority that settles back over his shoulder as the words leave his lips is a familiar, invigorating weight. _There_ it is; “Leader”, “Commander”, “Sensei”, “Senpai”, _there it is!_ It wells up from within him like an endless tide, drowning out the cloistering fear from before and imbuing him with a stronger, more permanent kind of resolve.

 _This_ is what he should have been all along, the kind of leader he _should_ have been for his team, one that can stand up for them instead of just giving them orders. He’s let this slide for far too long, should never have let it start to begin with – and for what? Out of fear? Because of the anxious voice in his brain that tells him he’ll risk Yosuke’s opinion of him if he steps in to stop the slander against another teammate?

He must not have been much of a leader before but he’ll make damn sure he’s worthy of the title now.

Guilt for his past hesitation and a fierce kind of protective solidarity lashes like fire behind his teeth; Kanji is his _friend_ and a good person and doesn’t deserve even half of the shit that gets said about him, _to_ him. He’d trusted Souji enough to confide in him, to come out to him, so what the hell kind of friend would Souji be if he stayed quiet now?

Souji lets the trembling, frightened version of himself fall away and in his place there comes to stand someone else: the general that the characters of his name spell him out to be, stormy-eyed and steel-boned with the breath of thunder in his lungs. He’d picked the name himself, long ago when he was still a child; time to live up to it. Time to make his lieutenant _stand down._

Yosuke seems to shake himself out of his stun, his stance changing to one more grounded. His brow furrows harshly and his mouth twists into an incredulous, bewildered frown. He opens his mouth, likely to defend himself or to protest, but Souji doesn’t let him speak.

“No, you don’t get to talk right now after what you already said.” He narrows his eyes against the faint yellow at the edges of his vision, glowering at Yosuke with all the heat of everything he’s ever wished he had the courage to say.

“What does it matter?” Souji sweeps a hand over to where Kanji stands off to the side, never taking his eyes off his former partner. “What the hell does it matter what Kanji’s sexuality is? Has he ever done anything to you? To _anyone?”_

Yosuke gapes at him, mouth working open and closed with only choked, half-formed sounds escaping.

Souji doesn’t give him the chance to find his words. “No,” he spits, “no, he hasn’t, and before you say _anything_ about his shadow I want you to think reeeeal hard about your own.” He tilts his chin forward, looking down the bridge of his nose at where Yosuke still gawks wordlessly up at him. Souji’s eyes narrow even further.

“A shadow is a shadow, Yosuke, it’s made of fear and repressed negativity, so unless you want to look me in the eye and tell me everything _your_ shadow said was a hundred percent true _without exception…”_ He trails off and levels Yosuke with a pointed look, letting the implications of his words sink in. It’s a low blow; not quite the lowest he could make but close enough, and while he doesn’t like it, it needs to be said so that Yosuke understands just how serious this is.

Yosuke looks like he’s been struck. Pain flashes across his face and he recoils as though burned. “The _fuck,_ Souji,” he breathes, and his voice is a mixture of anger and disbelief.

(If there is just the slightest hint of pain in there, too, then Souji forces himself not to react. He doesn’t want to hurt Yosuke – after all, up until now he’s been the best friend Souji’s ever had – but he can’t let Yosuke and his homophobia keep hurting anyone else, either.)

In the seconds before Yosuke tries to speak again, Souji hears Kanji move behind him. “Senpai, it’s okay, you don’t have to—“

Souji holds up a hand, glancing over his shoulder to give his friend a short nod. “Yes. I do.”

Kanji raises his eyebrows and falls silent. Beside him Naoto still looks tense and ready to fight should the need arise. (Souji wonders just how many times they’ve had to deal with this kind of thing. He hates the thought.)

Turning back, he schools his face into the cold, carved marble mask he’s grown used to wearing in the TV world. Yosuke hunches further down as Souji fixes a grey gaze on him, center of gravity lowered in case he needs to fight or flee. Souji recognizes the action, knows he’s hit a nerve.

He finds Yosuke’s gaze with his own and holds it, unblinking. “You need to apologize.”

Yosuke finally finds his voice. With a look that could melt glaciers – though still shaky around the edges – he bites out, _“Me_ apologize? I didn’t even fucking _do_ anything, why the hell should I have to apologize?”

“How about for the way you’ve been speaking to Kanji for the past six months, for starters?” _And Chie,_ he thinks, _and Yukiko._

The shaky edges seem to tremble harder, nervous energy rattling Yosuke’s frame as his shoulders tense. He’s angry, yes, but there’s something else there, too, something that was also there before; a kind of desperation that has slowly begun to creep closer to panic. “You make it sound like I’ve been attacking him,” he says, and his voice is thin, crackling. “So, what? I’m supposed to feel guilty about being uncomfortable? You want me to apologize for trying to make sure nothing weird happened?”

The yellow at the boarder of his vision turns to bloody _red._

“Uncomfortable?” he snarls. He feels his spine curl forward, tight and controlled and coiled like a spring, his own body finally echoing his anger and almost dropping into a low battle stance. Like a wolf prepared to charge. _“Uncomfortable?_ And just how the fuck do you think _other_ people feel when you go around saying shit like that?!”

Yosuke jerks backwards, thrown so off guard he nearly stumbles. The wild-eyed look is back, that desperate-panicked-barely-held-together gleam shining brightly in twin oceans of hazel.

But Souji pays no heed. “Do you have _any_ idea how much it _hurts_ people when you say that? You think you’re uncomfortable? You have _nothing_ on the ones that have to listen to comments like that every day of their lives.” He pulls his lips back over his teeth, baring them, and pours every last drop of his own hurt and anxiety in to join the righteous, protective anger he feels on Kanji’s behalf. “Maybe you’re right, maybe you didn’t attack him, but that’s the kind of thing that _gets_ people attacked!”

There are sounds behind him; his friends, the running of the river, the hammering of his heart in his ears. His throat is starting to burn from speaking so much – his body isn’t used to it anymore – and he can feel the tremors in his chest that signal the start of hyperventilation, adrenaline mixing with everything else now burning below his skin.

Everything zeros in on one point, everything else fading away as Souji stares dead-on into Yosuke’s eyes. He’s never held eye contact for this long with _anyone,_ but he refuses to let go of it now. He throws a hand out to the side and points somewhere behind him in the general direction of where he remembers Kanji being. _“Kanji,”_ he emphasizes, “isn’t gay, Yosuke, and even if he was, _what does it matter?_ He’s still a _friend,_ and a member of this team, and _fuck you_ and your homophobia!”

There is a line somewhere, deep in his heart, one that Souji has only ever tiptoed over once or twice before in his entire life. He’d been scarred for his efforts nearly every time and so he’s kept neatly to his own side of it ever since, never daring to cross it fully lest he be left damaged beyond repair. But it’s exhausting on this side of the line, soul-rending, isolating, and after years and years and _years_ he finally feels his resolve break.

He opens his mouth, takes a breath, and leaps across the line inside him.

“If you’re so adamant about being uncomfortable around gay men then why don’t you lay off of him and start being uncomfortable around _me?!”_

He stabs at the air with his raised arm, jabbing harshly with the finger he’s been pointing behind himself at his silent friends, back where the Fortune and Emperor bonds have been burning, fizzing, blinding in their intensity at the base of his skull. “Kanji’s not gay!”

_(“I can’t keep it in anymore; I gotta tell somebody or I’m gonna go crazy…”_

_“Like, it’s too big a secret to keep by myself, ya know?”)_

He pulls his arm in and points instead at himself. _“I_ am!”

The fingers on both his hands curl into fists, clenching so tightly into his palms that he can feel the skin giving way beneath them. He digs them deeper and rides out the tsunami of adrenaline until the very end.

“I’m _gay_ , Partner,” he repeats, spitting the nickname like it’s acid. “And I’m sorry if I don’t fit your _fucking_ _stereotypes,_ but maybe, _just maybe_ , queer people are normal _goddamn_ human beings!”

The world goes silent.

In the sudden, ringing quiet he slowly becomes aware of his breathing, the way his chest heaves like he’s been dying, drowning, and he’s somehow made it back to the surface to take his first lungful of air in _years._ His heart pounds against his ribs – he can feel it in his ears, his mouth, loud and insistent against the backs of his eyes. His throat _aches._

Yosuke stares at him. He is frozen completely still; even his chest is motionless, like the air inside him has been turned to ice with his blood. His face is white, his lips open and trembling, and his _eyes;_ impossibly wide, his pupils blown so that the hazel of his irises is almost totally eclipsed by inky black.

Yosuke looks at him as if he’s _afraid._

_Oh fuck._

Something shifts behind him. A faint, hesitant trill of gold zings its way along the Wheel of Fortune right before Naoto’s voice (at his back, much closer than he’d realized), hisses, “Senpai! Your _voice!”_

_Oh **fuck.**_

The breath leaves his lungs like a gunshot and Souji claps a hand over his mouth in dawning horror, tasting the coppery tang of the blood on his palm from his own fingernails. He can feel it now, the echo of his voice across the floodplain, hanging heavy in the air and in his head – the way his throat feels like he’s swallowed blistering sand. He presses his hand harder against his mouth until his lips grind against his teeth. He realizes now that he must have been shouting; that he’d lost control over his volume as he’d lost his grip on his temper, and that his vocal cords – so used to quiet, lower tones, trained for over a decade to keep the pitch he wants – have more than likely betrayed him.

He wishes he knew what he’d sounded like.

He’s unbelievably glad he doesn’t know.

Black replaces the dimming red that lines his sight, blotting along the outline like ink in water. The leftover adrenaline still dripping into his blood sparks to life again and he can feel the old, familiar fingers of panic come clutching at his spine.

_What have you done?_

He doesn’t look at Yosuke, still silent and fearful, doesn’t even bother to acknowledge him. He just pivots on the ball of his foot and starts to move. He breezes past Kanji and Naoto – the latter of whom, he is vaguely aware, turns almost immediately and follows after him with only a split-second glance behind.

A second, heavier set of footsteps catches up a few moments later, and he can hear the gruffness of Kanji’s voice in the way his second follower breathes.

He walks. Only on some barely conscious level does he know where he’s heading, and only then because he’d turned _away_ from Yosuke to do so. The only way _away_ is further down the river, so down the river is where he must be going. He lets his mind slip sideways and allows his body to stride as far and as fast away as it wants to, not even a hint of destination in mind.

 

 

It’s a long time before he comes back into his head.

When he does, it’s to find himself seated on the side of the road – well away from the river bank – with his back bowed and his head resting between his knees, both hands wrapped around his mouth so tightly he can feel the outline of his teeth through his skin.

There is someone’s hand between his shoulder blades he realizes after a time, rubbing small circles as he unconsciously rocks a couple inches forward and then a couple inches back. Like a pendulum. Or a broken chain.

“You think he’s gonna be okay?” says a voice off to his right.

The hand on his back pauses and he feels a thumb swipe along one of the knobs of his spine a few times, like the person the hand belongs to is loathe to stop entirely. Someone on his left – seated next to him, it seems – leans into the side of his vision just enough to cast a shadow in his peripherals. “Souji-senpai?” comes a different voice – higher, lighter, _blue._ “Are you back with us now?”

He takes in a deep breath through his nose and holds it, only releasing it when it starts to hurt. He exhales slowly through his teeth. “Yeah,” he mumbles into his knees. He has no idea if anyone can actually hear him. He doesn’t suppose it really matters. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m alright.” He gives himself a second to assess. “…I think,” he amends. Someone sighs in relief beside him.

“You had us worried, Senpai,” says the blue voice from before, the one with the hand on his back. He thinks it might be Naoto. (He’s pretty sure it’s Naoto.)

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He turns his head towards the blue voice but doesn’t actually raise it from between his knees. “I keep doing this to you.”

“Senpai, don’t… please stop apologizing.” The blue voice is sad, remorseful. He doesn’t like it. It should never have to sound that way.

He tries to shrug noncommittally, which is hard with his arms pinned down by his own thighs. “I don’t know how to do anything else,” he whispers.

He hadn’t really meant to say it, definitely didn’t mean for anyone else to hear it, but they did. He’s beginning to realize that they’re more attuned to him that he’d first wanted to allow.

Someone crouches next to him on his other side. It’s a warm presence, bigger than the other one, and it blots out the thin trail of sunlight that’s been soaking into his hair. “You didn’t have to do all’a that,” says the first voice, the one ringed in bleach-blond gold, rough and soft all at the same time. Like a hug when you weren’t expecting one.

Souji lets out a shaky laugh – a quiet huff of breath that makes his shoulders tremble. “Maybe I didn’t,” he whispers, “but I also kind of _did.”_ He hopes his inflection gets his meaning across; he isn’t sure he could try for anything more eloquent just now.

Kanji lets out a sound that might be a disbelieving snort. “You really are somethin’ else.” He lowers himself entirely, coming out of his crouch to sit directly on the ground beside him. There is a long moment of silence, one that feels like two people making eye contact over the top of his head. Finally, Kanji murmurs, “Thanks, Senpai, that… meant a lot.”

He shakes his head. Slowly, he pulls his hands away from his mouth and lets them drop. He doesn’t sit up just yet though, perfectly content to stare at the dirt between his shoes. He’s too exhausted still for much of anything else. “You shouldn’t thank me for doing what I should have done forever ago.”

“Hey. You said you knew how hard it must’a been for me to come out to you, yeah? I get it, too.”

Souji starts to shake his head again, ready to protest that he’s the Leader, it’s his job as their commander and as their _friend_ to stand up for them, to do the things too unsafe for them to do, to have their backs like they protect his in the TV world, but a large, gentle hand comes down on his shoulder – long and calloused fingers brushing along the sliver of his neck exposed past his collar. He shivers.

“No,” says Kanji, voice firm but kind. “Naoto’s right, you need to stop thinking everything’s your responsibility.” There is another pause, and a slight shift on both sides of him, the rustle of fabric quiet in his ears. The hand that Naoto already has on his back starts to move again.

It’s Naoto’s turn to sigh. “I think we all tend to forget just how human you are,” they murmur, and it’s still that sad, hushed tone from before – the one he hates because it hurts. “Including you, Senpai; you try to do everything, and we, like idiots, believe that you _can,_ and that you don’t need our help, too, sometimes.”

He lets out another shivery exhale – it nearly comes out like a sob.

Kanji fidgets. “Naoto said they’ve seen you like this before.”

Souji nods.

“…Is it always like this? This bad, I mean.”

Souji sucks in a long breath. He nods again. “Usually,” he croaks.

“Well shit…”

Silently, the fingers at the base of his skull press into his skin, pushing tiny little spirals into the knot he already knows is there. No one says anything more for a few moments until, “That’s what happened at the cultural festival, isn’t it? After the pageant?”

He tenses. _Oh please no, I don’t want to talk about that right now._

But Naoto comes to his rescue. “He was having a panic attack, yes.” They change their pattern and start smoothing their hand – much smaller than Kanji’s, with just as gentle of a touch – up and down the length of his back. Souji feels himself relax a little further.

There is a faint, tender thrum along the pair of bonds he shares with these two particular friends. He feels it vibrate along the line and into his own body, but also, strangely, he can feel it reverberating back outwards, too. He lets himself follow it, just to see, and it echoes across the Emperor and Wheel of Fortune towards one another as well as back to him. Well, he thinks, at least _something_ good came out of this mess.

“How often do you get them?” Kanji asks. There is worry there, something a little guilty, and _nononono,_ that’s not something that should be there. Souji is the only one that should shoulder the weight of worry; his friends don’t deserve something that heavy across their backs.

But the way Kanji asks is too genuine for Souji not to answer, so he swallows down his discomfort at being fretted over and says, more honestly than he’s accustomed to, “Too often.”

_“Fuck.”_

There is a long stretch of silence after that. It isn’t uncomfortable; in fact it’s relatively easy – no one is saying anything because nothing more really needs to be said right now. Souji finds he likes it this way.

There are birds chirping in the distance, despite the thin layer of fog that has been obscuring the horizon for several days now. The far-off sound of cars from the roads closer to town is there, too; all ambient noise, real and unobtrusive. It’s grounding, and blessedly calm. Eventually though, as is what happens to even the most serene pockets of time, the silence is broken.

“Hey… Naoto?” Kanji murmurs around Souji’s hunched form. There is a soft rustle from Souji’s left and a barely there, “hmm?” to which Kanji responds, “I’m uh. I’m bi.”

A beat. Then, “Oh. Well.... Thank you for trusting me with this information, Kanji-kun.” They go quiet again for a moment, contemplative. “I personally am not sure what my sexuality is, only that my gender is quite fluid.” There is a breathy chuckle near Souji’s left ear and he can practically _hear_ the blush across Naoto’s nose. There is a smile in their voice when they add, “But you already knew that about me.”

Souji grins to himself where the others can’t see. This is progress – even if it’s on the back of something awful like yet _another_ of his attacks. He’d gladly have a hundred more if it meant he could inadvertently make his friends happy.

One of the fingers still kneading gingerly at his neck taps against his vertebrae, like a half-hearted poke. “Senpai,” Kanji says, and Souji can’t help shifting a little to peek out at his friend from between his own knees. It’s the first clear view of either of them he’s had since his brain shut down at the riverbank.

Kanji is frowning at him, brow creased in concentration like he’s still figuring out what he wants to say. “You outed yourself,” he finally settles on, and there is a question hiding in the tone of his voice.

Souji sighs and uncurls his spine, sitting up at last. Several things pop back into place as he goes.

He watches the world in front of him, vision focusing on the middle distance as he gives his friend a tired, resigned shrug. “I did,” he admits. “I didn’t exactly _plan_ to do that, but… I did.”

Naoto leans over a bit into Souji’s peripherals; he can see them watching his face as they say, “Perhaps it was for the best?”

Souji tilts his chin in their direction, listening without turning to look.

They take it for the sign to continue that it is. “What I mean to say is that, of course we support you, and maybe it’s one less burden to bear now.” They glance upwards to where Souji can only assume Kanji is. “Don’t you think?”

From the angle they’re all at, Souji can just barely make out the movement of Kanji nodding.

Naoto continues, “It might not have been ideal, but if it’s enough to get Yosuke-senpai to rethink his mentality, then maybe it was a good thing in disguise?” They sound unsure (which is something Souji is starting to see is a side-effect of Naoto being comfortable around someone,) as if they want to be helpful but aren’t convinced they’re doing it correctly. It’s still sweet – and Souji does understand what they’re trying to say.

He huffs, knowing Naoto will hear it for the (albeit humorless) laugh that it is. “Maybe,” he says, watching them through the edge of his line of sight. “I guess if I lose him as a friend over this then he wasn’t the kind of friend I needed in the first place.”

It hurts to say aloud; he desperately _does not want_ to lose his best friend, his partner, but he’s worn out. If it comes to that then it will hurt, (he can already recognize the beginnings of another thorny ball of pain taking root inside his heart, as well as the emptiness that creeps in along with it,) but he was hurting before, too, every time something homophobic came dripping from Yosuke’s oblivious mouth. Every time his friend had made a comment or a statement that attacked Kanji, Souji had felt it, leaking in like rain against a battered roof, bringing the guilt of his own silence with it. He’s already in pain, but he’s tired of letting himself be hurt, tired of letting others like him be hurt, and, by proxy, tired of hurting himself. He doesn’t care so much about his own wounds anymore, though, as familiar as they are. They’re exhausting, yes, but the thing that had tipped him over the edge was the way his friends, his teammates, those that look to him for direction were being treated.

Souji can count the number of people that have ever stood up for him and this deeply-rooted piece of himself on one hand – he refuses to let that fleeting kindness stop at him.

He sees his kohai sharing a glance, though he can’t make out their facial expressions from where he’s sitting. He can tell there is a silent conversation happening around him, and while he’s curious, he also doesn’t want to pry. So he waits, confident that someone will speak up in a moment.

He’s right. Naoto gently clears their throat – an oddly nervous gesture – and mumbles, “I don’t think you’ll lose him completely, Senpai. Yosuke-senpai is a bit obtuse, yes, but your outburst may have been exactly what he needed to fix his own mistakes.”

Kanji appears to nod. “Y-yeah, what they said.” He glances around Souji’s shoulders towards Naoto again, more wordless dialogue taking place while Souji waits. Kanji leans back around again after a few seconds. “And, I mean, I dunno if you’ve noticed, Senpai, but Yosuke-senpai is kind of glued to you half the time, so…”

Souji ticks his gaze over as Kanji trails off; left curious once more, but not quite ready to look at anyone dead on.

“He seems to adore you,” Naoto concludes, and Souji shifts so that his attention switches back over to them as they speak. “It is my honest belief that he’ll come around eventually. It might just… take some time.”

 _I don’t really **have** time,_ Souji wants to say, but bites his tongue instead. November isn’t all that far away from March in the long run, and if he’s going to permanently lose the closest friendship he’s had since childhood then he’d rather be given the chance to grieve properly. If not, then any time spent in limbo is a waste. He doesn’t think he can win, either way.

It’s less draining just to relinquish his grip on hope.

Simultaneously, because despite him sitting up, neither Kanji nor Naoto has removed their grounding touch, the hands on his back slide inward, mirroring each other, and there is a moment where it feels like Souji is being hugged from either side. He stiffens, purely on instinct, for only the briefest flash of time, before leaning in to the awkward, three-person embrace and letting the rest of the tension bleed out of his bones.

He isn’t falling this time. There are hands to catch him.

“Thanks, Senpai,” Kanji murmurs, and Souji lets this one wash over him, letting go of his eternal need to shrug off words of gratitude. He’s not going to dismiss his friend’s feelings this time. “For all of that back there.” Kanji sighs. “I wish you hadn’t had to do that, though, cuz that’s a pretty shitty way to be forced outta the closet.”

Soui hums and the beginnings of a smile tug at one corner of his mouth. “No one forced me,” he says, and it’s lighter than he expected, truer. Like a stone has been lifted from his neck – only one out of several dozen, but even one less is still one less. He chuckles softly. “I think I just got tired of holding it in, too.”

There is a pause as Kanji looks at him; Souji can feel his friend’s eyes on the side of his face. And then Kanji laughs.

It’s low and calm, seeming slightly out-of-place when compared to Kanji’s usually much more intense demeanor, but somehow it fits him. A side that only appears around certain people – like Naoto and their lowered guard; like Souji and his genuine smiles. “Yeah,” Kanji agrees, “yeah, I know what you mean.”

From over on his left, Naoto squeezes their arm tighter around his ribs and lets out a quiet, wordless sound, breathy like a vocal exhalation. “It will be alright in the end, I think,” they say with a note of hopeful positivity.

Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, Souji tentatively allows himself to believe they could be right.

 

\---

           

24 hours later, there is a letter.

24 hours later, and Souji is deathly cold in every way possible, standing in an interrogation room with Kanji, Teddie, and Yosuke, listening from somewhere far away as Dojima-san tries and fails to keep the desperation from his voice when he shouts an order back at Adachi.

24 hours later, and Souji feels the cracked, damaged pieces of his soul utterly and completely _break._

Because it’s only 24 hours later, and Nanako has disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title is taken from 'The Grey' by Icon For Hire.
> 
> Listen to the playlist on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/qr3jt923f3k6r9qxlt514mopm/playlist/7wqvOlmp9wxe8FT6B9pALQ) or [Youtube.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLo73OgaRqSRHtyrRk4R35il-_3b4supLS)
> 
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	4. Dream About That Casual Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not fair; Souji is already one of the best looking guys in Inaba. Yosuke knows it, can admit it now, because there really isn’t any way he couldn’t, what with the sheer number of admirers his partner has amassed, which also isn’t fair. To be forced to admit that Souji also makes one of the best looking girls Yosuke has ever seen is just downright cruel. 
> 
> He’s gorgeous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaayyyyy! I'm back with an actual chapter this time, hello! I know I keep apologizing for the wait but since this one legit took a while I do want to apologize again. (Granted, it actually only took me two weeks to write, but KH3 got released and I happily lost an entire week to that~) I think I've figured out my limitations now though; I'm unlearning a lot of unhealthy writing habits gained from my mad scramble back in grad school, so it's getting easier. The endless amount of support from you guys has been so overwhelmingly helpful, too - I really _can't_ thank you enough, it means the world to me. All that said, I think I can comfortably say I will be aiming for a new update every 2 weeks. 
> 
> Now, about this chapter: you may have noticed the fic rating has gone up. Not to spoil anything but there's a scene at the end that gets a little... mature. It's not overly graphic but it's definitely sexual, so if you're uncomfortable reading that kind of thing or you're somewhere where you can't, I did put a TL;DR in the end notes. It starts right after the rooftop scene and continues through the end of the chapter; when the text goes to pure italics, skip down to the very bottom and you'll be fine. If you're cool with reading it, though, then have at it~  
> (Also, a quick shout out to my brother-in-law for his feedback on the scene and for offering a dmab perspective on details I wouldn't know firsthand.)
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> **CHAPTER WARNING: MILD SEXUAL CONTENT**

_“I over communicate and feel too much,  
I just complicate it when I say too much._  
_I laugh about it, dream about that casual touch._  
_Sex is fire, I’m sick and tired of acting all tough.”_

_(“Feelings”, Hayley Kiyoko)_

**_October_ **

 

The noise level backstage is weird. Yosuke can hear the muffled sounds of the students out in the auditorium, the volume masking just how many people are actually there, waiting to see a bunch of guys forced into dresses against their will. Everything is just… bullshit. (He hates the girls so much right now; even if he does kind of deserve it after getting them all trapped in a similar boat.)

He scratches nervously at the sweater… vest… _thing_ that Chie had given him to wear. It’s _itchy._ How come girls’ clothes are so uncomfortable? Are _all_ girls’ clothes like this? He really hopes not. That would suck.

Speaking of suck, the backstage area is not a place Yosuke has ever been before but has quickly decided is _not_ a place he ever wants to be again. It’s hot, it’s dark, and the only thing keeping any of them from tripping over shit and falling on their faces is the dull glow of the muted florescent bulbs spaced widely throughout the area, which really doesn’t do much of anything at all. Yosuke is pretty sure he’s going to run into something and break his nose. How the hell do the drama club kids do this on a regular basis?

For as narrow of a space as it is there are also way too many people in it for Yosuke to feel comfortable. Not that he’s exactly relaxed anyway, what with the itchy sweater thing and the skirt and the _people waiting to see him in the sweater thing and the skirt._ There’re a handful of theatre kids off to the side, wandering to and fro upon occasion, doing whatever it is theatre kids do behind the scenes. There’s also someone that looks like they might be a teacher over near the entrance (Yosuke admittedly didn’t look too hard), probably acting as some kind of half-assed supervisor.

Chie, Yukiko, and Rise were back here, too, some time ago, but Yosuke hasn’t seen them for a little while, so he thinks they may have gone off to do girl things or help set up. Either way, Yosuke is kind of glad they aren’t around right now. He thinks he might have also seen Naoto earlier for a scant few minutes, hovering near where a duffle bag now rests by the wall. They’d disappeared pretty quickly, though, so it could very well have been someone else.

And then of course there are the poor bastards about to be paraded out on stage for the rest of the school to gawk at. Yosuke sighs. He really hates everything right now; he’s stuffed into the most humiliating outfit he’s ever worn and the smells of the hair spray and fruity, nasty lipgloss Chie slathered all over his mouth are combining in his nose to give him the headache of the century. He feels sticky, jittery, and uncomfortable in not only every way _physically_ possible, but also mentally. _Fuck._

Off to the side, Kanji doesn’t look like he’s doing a whole hell of a lot better. Sure, he keeps pulling at his dress, holding the lower half of it out in front of him to stare at, turning it this way and that apparently just to watch it move, but Kanji is also the son of a seamstress, so that just makes sense. The dress aside, however, Kanji’s wig is cheap and he is clearly too tall for his outfit – too much leg and too unsteady in the ungodly-high heels he’s been forced to wear. Yosuke actually feels just the tiniest bit worse for Kanji than he does for himself; at least Yosuke’s shoes are _flat._

Teddie, the runt, has apparently run off to parts unknown, spouting some excuse about keeping his look a “surprise.” _Damn bear,_ Yosuke thinks. Teddie isn’t even a _student_ here, there’s no punishment waiting for him should he decide to bail on them and he _knows_ it. The only reason he’d even been signed up in the first place was because Teddie had begged and pleaded and _whined_ until Yosuke finally put his name on the list with the rest of them. (The girls evidently _did_ think about it but since the teachers wouldn’t even know who Teddie _was,_ they’d figured it was impossible to make it stick if they did.)

But now the loud little mascot has vanished, leaving only the trio of Yosuke, Kanji, and Souji to face the proverbial guillotine.

_Souji._

For what has to be the hundredth time in the last half hour, Yosuke glances over at where his partner stands silently in the darkest, farthest corner of the room.

Souji looks utterly lifeless. He stares at nothing, eyes dark and vacant in the crappy backstage lighting, standing stock-still and completely soundless. It’s almost like he’s not even there. Yosuke can’t blame him, really; he himself would be gone in a heartbeat if he thought he could manage to pull it off. Sadly, he hasn’t yet mastered whatever technique it is that has Souji so focused all the time – like, _all_ _the time_ – so Yosuke has no mental tricks of his own to help him escape his current situation.

Still though, the more Yosuke looks at him (and Yosuke has been catching himself looking a _lot_ during these past 30 minutes,) the more he seems to notice about his best friend. He notices the way Souji’s long silver wig frames his face and makes it softer, more regal, (though Souji has always had a kind of imperial look to his features.) He notices how Souji seems to almost glow in the dim yellow light – washed out, wraith-like, monochromatic. He notices the way the deep charcoal of Souji’s uniform makes every tiny bit of visible skin stand out sharply in contrast.

He notices how it makes Souji looks like some kind of wandering apparition, moon-kissed and ethereal.

Yosuke looks away, shaking his head until he makes himself dizzy.

It’s not fair; Souji is already one of the best looking guys in Inaba. Yosuke knows it, can admit it now, because there really isn’t any way he _couldn’t_ , what with the sheer number of admirers his partner has amassed, which _also_ isn’t fair. To be forced to admit that Souji also makes one of the best looking _girls_ Yosuke has ever seen is just downright cruel.

He’s _gorgeous._

Yosuke shakes himself again and focuses on the way it makes his headache throb so he doesn’t have to wonder why his stomach is swooping like he’s in free-fall.

_It’s so un-fucking-fair._

Everything just _fits_ Souji better, too, seems to sit on his body like it was made to compliment him. The outfit, the wig, the swipe of color across his lips, it all looks almost uncannily natural on him in a way that Yosuke just can’t figure out. For a moment, if Yosuke didn’t know any better, he could almost imagine that the person in front of him is _actually_ a girl.

And ohhh fuck, what a damn good looking girl he makes, too – the _exact_ kind of girl Yosuke would be tripping over himself to hit on, and Yosuke curses his own damn brain for the confusion crackling through him right now. His hormones keep niggling at him, poking him, reminding him that he’s a teenaged boy and that he finds girls attractive, that he’s been sexually frustrated his entire high school life. _Girlfriend?_ they whisper.

 _No!_ he hastily tries to correct them. _Souji!_ _Partner! BOY!!_

Souji is a boy and his best friend and Yosuke shouldn’t be starting at him like he used to _(used_ to? Past-tense?) stare at Rise and Yukiko and every other girl he ever thought was hot. He shouldn’t keep having to remind his breathing not to quicken or his face not to burn and _what is happening here?_

He bows his back and hunches over, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until little sparks of light start to form behind his eyelids. He groans.

The thing is, Souji isn’t even _doing_ anything, just keeping to himself like a mannequin in a shop window. It’s almost creepy.

Actually, it’s… kind of concerning. Souji is a pretty quiet person in general, yeah, but usually he’s not _this_ quiet, _this_ still, _this_ detached. Yosuke peeks out between his fingers and back over at his best friend, wondering suddenly if maybe something is wrong. Well, _more_ wrong that everything already is.

Souji hasn’t moved so much as an inch since Yosuke looked at him last; his prop bokken is still slung over his shoulder like his katana in the TV world, his fingers clutching it so tightly they’re turning white beneath the shitty lamps. The only sign of life is the way he blinks every few seconds – something his body does without him telling it to, like breathing or pumping blood. If Souji is in there he’s somewhere very, very far away.

Yosuke wonders if he should go over there and check on him. He’d been so preoccupied feeling sorry for himself in his damn miniskirt that it hadn’t really occurred to him before now that his partner seems…

Yosuke glances at Kanji. His kohai is frowning down at the hunk of dress he’s got pinched between his fingers, apparently scrutinizing the quality of the fabric. He doesn’t look _happy_ about cross-dressing, but he also doesn’t look like he’s left his body and faded into nothingness. Kanji looks similar to how Yosuke feels, pissed and uncomfortable with a “can we please get this over with?” kind of vibe around the set of his mouth. Souji, on the other hand, is a soulless doll.

Standing back up from his crouch, Yosuke allows himself to look over at Souji once more, this time staring deliberately to see if he can pick out anything that might give him a clue as to whether he should be worried or not. He flicks his eyes across Souji’s expressionless face, looks to the bone-colored fingers around the bokken, watches the (convincing) swell of Souji’s chest to make sure it still rises and falls with breath the way it should. His gaze drops then, to the gentle curve at Souji’s waist, accentuated by the cut of his uniform top. It travels downwards, past his partner’s hips, which seem fuller now, more prominent, thanks to how the waistband of the skirt cinches right above the jut of his hipbones. They look _perfect_ , like they would be just the right shape to fit in Yosuke’s hands, just the right place to rest his palms, to gently pull and bring the two of them closer together until they were pressed hip to hip…

Yosuke’s mouth goes dry.

He whips his head back around like he’s been stung, heart suddenly pounding inside his chest so hard it nearly knocks him over. Guilt and something hot, tight, _tingling_ settles low in his gut, mixing together into a wave of breathlessness that leaves him feeling like he’s just been caught doing something wrong.

_What the hell, what the hell, what the **hell?!**_

This is _Souji_ – he’d just been ogling _Souji,_ had just been fantasizing about putting his hands on _Souji._ His best friend in the whole world, his partner. Yosuke sucks in air through his nose and tries to regulate his breathing, wiping his suddenly clammy hands down the sides of his skirt.

It has to be a fluke; they’re all dressed like girls and Yosuke has never so much as _kissed_ a girl and his libido is confused because Souji’s costume looks _way_ too real and _oh my GOD._ This is so stupid, he’s going to _throttle_ whomever picked out their outfits.

“Hey uh, Yosuke-senpai? You don’t look so good.”

Yosuke is broken out of his thoughts with a sharp exhale. Looking over, he sees Kanji watching him with a curious expression, one thinned-down eyebrow quirked high. It takes Yosuke a second to react, to run Kanji’s words through his mind and actually understand them. Eventually though, he nods.

“Y-yeah,” he squeaks. He swallows against the dryness seeping down his throat, runs his tongue across his lips to wet them. “Yeah, I’m not really feelin’ too great right now.” He tries to give his kohai a weak laugh but it comes out instead as a wheeze. Kanji’s other brow goes up to join the first. Yosuke clears his throat and looks away. “It’s nothing, it’s just nerves.”

Kanji makes a sound of agreement. “I feel ya, Senpai, the waitin’s the worst. I kinda wish they’d just get started already.”

Yosuke tilts his head back and _groans_. “Or never start at all,” he says. “Just cancel it, let us go home. That’d be even better.” He lolls his head over – grimacing at the way the damn strawberry hair clip tugs at his scalp – just in time to see Kanji running the hem of his dress through his fingers again, a slight frown on his face.

“It’d almost be a waste’a time at this point, wouldn’t it?” Kanji asks, still staring at the white fabric in his hands. “Think they’d miss this?”

Confused, (but hey, textile shop, so whatever,) Yosuke is about to open his mouth and form a reply when suddenly there is the crackle of a microphone overhead, the speakers up above them humming to life. The lights backstage seem to dim even further until everything around them becomes nothing more than fuzzy outlines and indiscernible shapes. Great.

A voice Yosuke doesn’t recognize comes over the line, calling out a final sound check. There are more words, something that sounds like a greeting, but Yosuke doesn’t pay them any attention; he’s too busy suppressing the urge to _flee_ and never look back. He springs upright, body locked into a stance of pure dread by his live-wire nerves. Beside him, in what remains of the light, he can see Kanji making a face that can only be summed up as, _‘oh for fuck’s sake’._ Yosuke doesn’t think he’s ever felt a bigger connection to his teammate than in this one excruciating moment.

The announcer says more words through the speakers and Yosuke can feel himself start to vibrate with nervous energy. Yeah, he thinks, it would have been so much better if they had just canceled the whole damn thing. He’s so jittery, so absolutely _fucking_ nervous, that he almost doesn’t notice someone stepping up beside him. Granted, the lights backstage are almost completely off right now, and the person that just apparently blinks into existence next to him is wearing really dark colors, but it still takes longer than it probably should for Yosuke to realize he now has someone on his left.

He startles when he _does_ notice, though, and nearly jumps sideways into Kanji before he manages to stop himself. He’s got a pretty good handle on controlling the way his body moves by now – at least, he’d like to think he does – thanks to all the time spent fighting and training inside the TV. It’s kept him safe, kept him from doing stupid shit like knocking over his kohai, and it’s also what prevents him from instinctively slashing out at the figure beside him with a kunai that isn’t there.

It still takes him a stupid amount of time to recognize the shape of Souji standing beside him in the darkness.

“Shit, Partner,” he breathes, feeling his heart hammering away inside his ribs. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Souji doesn’t respond.

Yosuke fixes his center of gravity and leans in a little closer to his friend. ”Partner?” he calls, squinting against the lack of light. “Earth to Souji?” He reaches out a hand and waves it by Souji’s face.

No reaction.

That is… concerning. Yosuke gnaws at a part of his lower lip, teeth scraping the sticky, sickly-sweet lipgloss into his mouth where he winces at the taste. It doesn’t matter though; his friend is quite clearly not himself and with a limited amount of time and no privacy, Yosuke isn’t sure what to do here. Souji has never seemed to _need_ anything from him before, always being the one to listen and help and console, but right now Yosuke’s partner is a million miles away and, not for the first time, Yosuke wishes he could be the helping friend for a change. Souji has always been there for him, even when he didn’t have to be; the least Yosuke could do in return is make sure his best friend isn’t silently having a stroke.

He just… doesn’t really know what he’s doing. Having real friends is hard.

Yosuke glances around, making sure there’s no one watching them (Kanji doesn’t count, he’s part of the team), before taking a hesitant step into Souji’s space and leaning in to try and see his face through the gloom. His partner stares straight ahead, eyes so dark in the low light that it almost looks like they aren’t there at all. Lifeless pools of empty blackness, holes in a featureless mask.

“Dude,” Yosuke whispers, growing more and more on-edge as the seconds pass and Souji still doesn’t return from wherever he is. “Partner, come on, you’re creeping me out here.”

Cacophony. The din of the audience comes two-fold back to them, both from the crowd itself and also its echo through the speakers. It grates at Yosuke’s ears. He grimaces, turning his attention away from his friend for just a few seconds to focus back in on what’s happening. Over on his right, Kanji makes an unhappy sound and clacks his way over to the curtain. In the marginally better lighter filtering in from the stage, Yosuke sees Kanji take a deep breath, square his shoulders, and stomp out into the sea of noise and people. Yosuke feels his stomach drop out.

There is a soft inhale from beside him. It sounds wet, like a gasp that nearly became a choke, quiet and unsteady. Yosuke turns towards it just in time to see Souji blinking like he’s just woken up from a particularly bad dream. Souji inhales again, just a shallow, just as shaky, and for a moment, in the dark, Yosuke thinks his partner might be trembling.

The MC is talking again, gearing up to call the next one of them out, and Yosuke knows that no matter which of them is called he only has a few more seconds to try and help his friend.

But he doesn’t know what to _do._ His options are severely limited due to space and dark and their rapidly dwindling time. All he can think of as the announcer calls his name over the speakers is to shoot his partner a worried look he isn’t sure Souji can even see. “Bro, Souji, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Souji whispers, and Yosuke doesn’t have time to decide if he believes him or not before someone – probably a drama kid – comes up behind him and practically shoves him out onto the stage.

 

 

Souji disappears the moment the pageant is over and the four of them are released from their torment.

Well, three, technically, since Teddie still looks like he’s having the time of his life.

Yosuke tries to spot his partner backstage, to check on how he’s doing, but Souji must have something with Garudyne equipped because Yosuke _swears_ he doesn’t even get a chance to blink before Souji is straight up _gone._ Their leader breezes from the stage wings, over to the wall, pulling off his wig as he goes and tossing it to a startled techie off to the side. In one seamless motion, Souji scoops up the duffle bag that maybe-Naoto left there earlier and strides out into the back hallway. Yosuke is left to weakly call out after him to no avail, all the while unable to follow because an exuberant Teddie decides _right at that moment_ to bodily fling himself at Yosuke and latch on like a limpet. Yosuke contemplates prying the shoujo-anime-reject off him and tracking his partner down, but with as fast as Souji was walking, Yosuke knows it’s likely a lost cause at this point. He doesn’t feel like scouring the entire school.

Besides, he tells himself only barely convincingly, Souji must be fine now if he’s actually moving again. He’d been… better? possibly? while on stage – at least when Yosuke got a chance to sneak a look at him in between the humiliation and the public speaking. Souji had said his lines when his turn with the microphone came up and swung the bokken down like it was an extension of his arm, as fierce and fluid as he was with his sword. But… it had been… off, somehow. Just a little. Enough that Yosuke, who was so used to watching Souji, so used to studying him (out of awe and envy and _very_ _minor_ idolization, but hell if Yosuke would ever say that out loud,) had managed to pick up on it in the handful of seconds he’d had to work with.

Souji had moved with practiced ease – something Yosuke is sure took no real mental effort to accomplish. His words had been low, monotone, spoken like a robot, and as much as Yosuke is certain a lot of that is just how his partner _is,_ he also hadn’t been able to stop his mind from conjuring up the image of a string-controlled puppet. An automated marionette with a database full of preprogrammed responses, picture-perfect in its humanity but cold and empty behind the eyes.

Yosuke shivers at the memory.

With no way of knowing just where Souji has run off to and with his costume starting to get more than a little claustrophobic, Yosuke finally just extracts himself from Teddie’s grip and starts off for the dressing rooms. He’ll go back, change his clothes, get the fucking makeup off his face, and wait until Souji decides he’s ready to rejoin them. Who knows? Maybe he’ll be fine after putting his normal clothes back on and Yosuke won’t even have to worry anymore.

Yeah, he thinks as he gathers up his _(boy’s)_ uniform and starts tugging the hair tie from his head. His partner is probably fine, just eager to put the whole traumatizing pageant behind him like Yosuke is.

He lets the thought settle while he starts to change, repeating it over and over again to himself until he actually starts to believe it.

_Everything’s fine._

 

 

Everything is _not_ fine.

Yosuke stares down at his phone screen, his brows furrowing so hard that it’s starting to hurt.

 _0 unread messages,_ it reads. Fuck.

He sighs heavily, the sound quickly turning into something long and drawn out, gravelly in the back of his throat. He rolls over onto his back on the bed and brings his hands up to cover his eyes, the phone face down and discarded on his chest. Souji hasn’t texted him back yet.

His partner had reappeared somewhere between the first time Yosuke had gone back to the classroom (after he finished changing), and the second time (after he’d been told by Rise that none of the girls had anything to take the makeup off with and he’d had to run back to the theatre students and ask _them.)_ When Yosuke had finally made it back – albeit empty handed – he’d found Souji seated in one of the desks shoved up against the wall by the door, looking blotchy and drained.

He’d wanted to talk to Souji then, since at the time it had looked like his friend was mostly back to normal despite the clear exhaustion. In his exuberance over Souji magically producing a pack of makeup wipes from his bag, however, Yosuke had evidently lost his only remaining chance, as by the time he and Kanji were making their way back to the room (again), Souji had been leaving.

Well, no, that wasn’t quite right; Souji had been _running._ He’d come tearing out of the classroom as Yosuke and Kanji were coming up the hallway, hugging the doorframe as he exited and nearly slamming into the wall beside the door. Yosuke had nearly shouted in surprise, battle-born instinct kicking in and immediately trying to check for damage he’d been too far away to actually see. But before either he or Kanji could properly react beyond that, Souji had pushed off the wall and gone sprinting towards them, past them, away from them and down the hall to the stairwell, moving like the Reaper was two steps behind.

Yosuke slides his hands up into his hair and tugs until it stings. The sensation is sharp, grounding, it puts him back in the present, back in his bedroom at home with the sound of Teddie downstairs, pestering Yosuke’s mom to let him help with dinner. It keeps him from thinking about how absolutely _shattered_ his partner’s expression had been for the brief second Yosuke had been able to see it as Souji dashed past. Brow furrowed as if in pain, eyes bright and frantic like dying stars, with deep-set lines around them, tight with tension. Yosuke didn’t even know Souji was _capable_ of making that face.

He doesn’t like that Souji _is._

It’s unsettling, first of all, to see their normally unshakable leader so visibly distressed. Souji is stoic at the best of times, even outside of combat, with expressions that don’t seem to change much but can make you warm and fluttery or pin you in place when they do. He’s like one of those optical illusion puzzles – twist one line around his mouth, make one minute shift in detail, and Souji goes from soft and kind to stone and fury. It’s what makes him the perfect Commander in the TV world, the best kind of Best Friend outside it, and to see him so drastically different leaves Yosuke reeling.

But on a more personal level, looking past just the obvious physical change, it’s _terrifying._ For something to have messed with Souji so badly as to warp his carefully controlled expression into _that…_

Yosuke feels the curling self-doubt start to take root in his mind. Something had clearly been bothering Souji for most of the day, and Yosuke – who is _supposed_ to be Souji’s friend, his equal, his _partner_ – wasn’t able to do anything about it. He’d missed his chance, taken too long to act, and whatever Souji had been dealing with had escalated to the point of boiling over, leaving Yosuke to gawk stupidly while the best friend he’d ever had tore through the stairwell door like he was dying.

Yosuke is faced with two very heavy realizations because of this. First, that Souji is, in fact, shakable. And second, that Yosuke was genuinely stunned to learn this first fact, which implies a _lot_ about his mindset that Yosuke doesn’t like. Maybe he’s just as guilty as the rest of the town about putting Souji up on a pedestal. He thought he wasn’t; he doesn’t like knowing he might have been wrong.

He lets out another sigh and stares up at his ceiling. He feels so useless right now; his friend was hurting, might _still_ be hurting, and no one knows where Souji is or what happened to make him bolt. Yosuke checks his phone again. Still nothing.

_GOD!_

With a noise of frustration, Yosuke heaves himself upright and tosses his phone to the end of the bed. He _hates_ this _so much!_ To be stuck here not able to do anything or even know where to begin – if only Souji would _answer_ him, answer _somebody!_ Yosuke keeps checking with the others, every thirty minutes or so, and he’d forced himself to wait that long, even, as he figured no one would like him much if he just kept badgering them. Not that checking every five seconds would change anything. Besides, he has to keep reminding himself to trust his friends, to trust that they’ll spread the news as soon as someone hears from him, gets word, spots him, anything.

(The thought that Souji might contact one of the others first leaves an odd sort of clenching feeling in Yosuke’s chest that he doesn’t really want to think about right now.)

_I should have gone after him._

For the millionth time that evening, Yosuke mentally kicks himself for all the things he should have done differently – knowing full well the hindsight won’t help, but being unable to do anything productive leaves him with nothing else. He should have run after Souji when his partner had sped by him, should have followed, should have tried to catch him. Instead, Yosuke had stared after him in shock, only spurring his feet to move long after Souji had vanished through the stairwell door. By the time Yosuke had finally reacted, Souji had seemingly evaporated, leaving behind only a visibly rattled Naoto near the middle of the stairs.

 _“I-I don’t know where he went.”_ Naoto had said when Yosuke had frantically asked if they’d seen his partner. They’d been trembling, just slightly, bracing their weight on the stair rail with one arm and holding themself with the other, tight and close like they could hold in the minute tremors if they squeezed hard enough.

Yosuke doesn’t think he’s seen them that distressed since they’d faced their own shadow. For both Souji _and_ Naoto to be so freaked at the same time is nearly incomprehensible to Yosuke. It scares him.

There had been almost no time to search after all of that, either, only about fifteen precious minutes to run through the halls in a vain attempt at spotting the familiar silver of Souji’s hair before the girls (and Naoto) were called away to get ready for their own pageant hell. Kanji and Naoto had split up to help him search before Naoto had had to leave them; Yosuke hadn’t wanted to frighten the others. Instead, he’d stamped down his jitters as best he could and asked them if they knew where Souji had gone, had they seen him, had he come back to the room at all? All anyone had known was that Souji had apparently stood up, _very_ quickly, mumbled an “excuse me”, and strode from the room like the rapids in a river, gathering speed as he went until he’d swung himself around the doorframe without so much as pausing. Polite to the end, even while moments away from slamming into a wall and taking off down the hallway like a shot.

They’d all been worried, obviously, especially Teddie, who’d apparently been clinging to him at the time, but it was only after the second pageant was over that the concern about Souji’s absence and failure to return really started to show on everyone’s faces. They’d all talked, voices hushed and heads together like they were plotting back at the Junes food court, about going to search for their leader, their friend, but the rooms had to be cleaned up, the last of the decorations packed away, and by the time they could all leave the sun had begun to set.

Which left Yosuke back at the present point, hands empty and head too full.

He wondered if he could possibly sneak out, go check the Dojima residence before his parents even knew—but no. No, it would take too long and Teddie would notice first and whine and tell Yosuke’s mom, and even if Yosuke managed to get there what would he do if Souji wasn’t at home? He’d risk scaring Nanako, risk running into Dojima-san. The whole thing would have the potential to go so horribly, horribly sideways and blow up into something messy and tangled. He doesn’t want to get Souji in trouble, doesn’t want to frighten Nanako, doesn’t want to get grounded for sneaking out when he’s supposed to be home because his mom wants to have a rare family dinner together while no one is on shift.

Sending a silent _‘pleasepleaseplease’_ to anyone, anything that might be listening, Yosuke fishes his phone back out from the covers at the foot of his bed and checks the screen.

_0 unread messages._

Yosuke thinks he might be going insane.

Opening his contact list, Yosuke pulls up Souji’s number at stares at it. He’s called so many times, left so many messages – each one left unanswered, unread. It would be one thing if Souji were seeing them and just not responding. (It would be a bad, hurtful, _worrying_ thing, but one thing on its own.) It’s a completely different thing for Souji to not be reading them at all.

Maybe he lost his phone or it ran out of battery, maybe he’ll call back after it’s finished charging. Or maybe something happened and Souji’s lying unconscious in an alley somewhere, unable to move let alone check his texts.

Yosuke shakes himself. No, he can’t think that. He’s not ready to think about that, despite how much his mounting anxiety might want him to. He needs to trust Souji, have faith that Souji will be alright, that he can handle himself like he does in the TV if anything happens. But Souji is human, just like the rest of them, and no amount of power, no army of personae will help outside in the real world. Car accidents can happen, kidnappings can happen – _do_ happen, _were_ happening – and all of it possible without a warning or chance to fight back.

He’s already hit the call button by the time he breaks that chain of thought.

The line rings and rings and rings, the sound like a failing heartbeat in Yosuke’s ear. There is a click, a pause, a familiar robotic voice telling him he’s reached the voicemail box of “Seta Souij” and to leave a message after the tone.

Yosuke’s stomach drops. He didn’t think it could get any lower.

“Partner, hey,” he says into the phone, not even bothering to keep the waver from his voice. He’d done so well the first couple of times; he’s stretched too thinly to do it now. “It’s me. Again….” Something wet trickles down his cheek; he makes no move to wipe it away. This is dumb, he’s being dumb, but he doesn’t know what to _do_ right now. Souji has always been the stronger one, the Leader, the rock that holds everything in place when shit keeps going wrong. For all Yosuke tries to match him stride for stride, he knows, in the dark, dusty place where he keeps the rest of his insecurities, that he’s too different from Souji to ever be like him.

He can’t find Souji, can’t get hold of him, can’t _help_ him, and it’s a blow that Yosuke isn’t sure he can recover from any time soon. Souji would know what to do but that’s the problem: Souji isn’t here. Yosuke is left to try and navigate this foreign situation all on his own. He’s used to being second-in-command, even if he’s never really needed to play the “command” role; taking over as default leader while Souji is missing isn’t something Yosuke was ready to do. Even if there’s no longer an investigation to head, even if his partner’s disappearance wasn’t a kidnapping (he hopes), if Souji doesn’t show up soon it will fall on Yosuke’s shoulders to lead the team to find him. Especially if it turns out Souji is nowhere to be found _outside_ the TV.

He chides himself for being so utterly unprepared.

Yosuke licks at his lower lip, sucking it between his teeth to chew at for a second as he thinks of something else to say that he hasn’t already said before. “Listen… it’s been _hours._ Where _are_ you?” He pauses, sucks in a watery breath. “I’m really freaked right now, okay? I swear to god, if you just forgot to turn your phone on or something…” His voice catches as a tide of something hot and suffocating washes over him, up his chest, his throat, into the back of his mouth where it chokes him and traps his words behind his teeth He pauses again to swallow it down. “Souji, please. _Please_ call me back, let me know you’re okay. You’re my _best fucking friend,_ let me help—“

_“Your message could not be recorded because this mailbox is now full. Please try your call again later.”_

With a desperate, angry growl, Yosuke yanks his phone away from his ear and throws it viciously down against the mattress. It bounces off the comforter, falling and landing with a muted _‘thunk’_ somewhere out of sight in the dark below the bed. He doesn’t go looking for it; he just lets it lay wherever it’s fallen and turns to bury his face in his pillow, fighting back the molten surge of tears until Teddie’s voice shouts up at him that it’s time for dinner.

He barely says a thing the rest of the night.

 

\---

 

Yosuke sleeps poorly, waking with a knotted stomach and a tight feeling gripping at the inside of his skull.

The house is quiet, eerily so, and in his blearily state it takes Yosuke a few groggy minutes to piece together the reason why. Teddie is still asleep; Yosuke can hear the bear’s thin, wheezy snoring from inside his closet, which is strange because usually Teddie is a bundle of energy from the moment Yosuke’s alarm goes off. Half the time, Teddie acts as his _second_ alarm after Yosuke tries hitting the snooze for the third time in a row, jumping onto Yosuke’s bed and tackling him in a “good morning hug.” Today, though, it seems that Yosuke has woken up well before his alarm is set to wake him. He doesn’t really know how that’s possible, considering he hadn’t managed to fall asleep until well after midnight, but somehow he’s awake before the rest of the household (provided his parents haven’t already gone in to work), and he doesn’t think he could get back to sleep even if he tried.

There are no new messages on his phone. Yosuke already hates today.

Still half in a daze, he turns off his alarm and makes his way quietly around the room to gather up the pieces of his uniform. He changes in the bathroom where he can see and the light won’t reach the slumbering bear back in his room. Were it another day he would wake Teddie up or just leave the alarm set for him, but Yosuke is painfully aware that Teddie has the after-school shift with him tonight and doesn’t even need to be awake until later in the afternoon.

He wanders downstairs and halfheartedly makes the quickest, most basic breakfast he can possibly make – which honestly isn’t any different than any other breakfast he makes for himself. There’s a little bit of the leftovers from last night’s dinner still tucked away in the fridge, but he leaves it be. Yosuke may know next to nothing about cooking but Teddie knows even less, and while he’d never admit it aloud, Yosuke is not so annoyed with Teddie’s existence that he wants the poor guy to go hungry. He also knows that Teddie gets lonely without him around and likely won’t be happy that Yosuke didn’t wake him up to say goodbye before leaving. He’s already prepared for the pouty earful the bear will have in store for him at work, but for the moment, Yosuke is willing to settle for an egg and toast for himself in order to leave his pseudo-brother with an edible peace offering. Maybe he’ll give Ted a call at lunch to make him feel better. (If only to save himself from being clung to by a living carnival prize later on.)

He sits at the counter and stares at his phone while he eats without tasting. No new messages. He dumps the uneaten half of his toast into the trash.

Time passes at a crawl, and while Yosuke is too frazzled to try and nap on the couch until he needs to leave, he also can’t seem to wake up any further. The exhaustion from yesterday still sticks to him, weighs him down like a thick blanket of dread. The feeling of uselessness, of not knowing what to do with himself or how to help still sits deep within his bones. The longer he stays idle, the more anxious his mind grows, despite the way his eyes itch like he hasn’t slept in a month. The runny egg and half slice of burnt bread sit weirdly in his stomach.

He’s debating on whether he wants to just leave a little early and possibly stake out Souji’s house – because hey, might as well – when his phone finally, _finally_ buzzes. Yosuke nearly drops it in his haste to get it out of his pocket, catching his fingernail on the seam of his jeans and bending it far enough to make it sting. All the while the phone continues to buzz, vibrating every couple of seconds as each new notification comes through. It takes him a minute, but he manages to extract the device from his pocket, ignoring the way his finger is throbbing.

He doesn’t even bother checking the notifications flashing up at him from the screen, he just goes straight to his messages and desperately hopes that at least _one_ of them is from Souji.

None of them are.

Instead, there are a handful of texts from Naoto, all sent to the entire Investigation Team like the big-ass group chat they never got around to making.

 

 **Detc Prince:** JUST SPOKE 2 SOUJI-SENPAI

 **Dect Prince:** HE IS SAFE AT HOME & HAS BEEN THERE SINCE LAST NIGHT

 **Detc Prince:** EVIDENTLY HE PASSED OUT & SLEPT 12 HOURS. JUST NOW WOKE UP.

 **Detc Prince:** HE SAYS HE IS SORRY 4 SCARING US. HE ALSO WONT B AT SCHOOL 2DAY

 **Detc Prince:** VIOLENTLY ILL YESTERDAY BUT BETTER NOW. LEFT AFTER GETTING SICK

 

Yosuke stares down at his phone in confusion.

_No, that’s… wrong._

He stands dumbly in the kitchen, in the quiet, morning-dark house, with his phone in his hands and a furrowed brow and tries to piece together this story with his own from the day before. He’s foggy-headed still, sleepy and jacked all at the same time, but even if he were wide-awake he knows that something would be off.

Souji had been running down the hall like he was _terrified._ He’d blown past Yosuke and Kanji with the speed of someone deeply afraid (which Yosuke recognizes from their first few adventures into the TV world, back when everything was still new to them all), not of someone about to throw up. His partner had rocketed away from him almost too quickly to catch his expression, but Yosuke knows how to look at Souji, knows how to check for tells, how to read his commander, his best friend, and pick up on Souji’s signals. It’s how they fight side-by-side in the dungeons, when Yosuke has his headphones blaring and their soft-spoken leader needs to guide them all through battle. Yosuke _knows_ Souji – and those weren’t the eyes of “ _let me by, I have to hurl.”_

Souji’s eyes had been wide and frightened, laced with sorrow and the same kind of desperate mania that so many of their friends had worn as they faced down their shadows.

Yosuke feels the breakfast in his stomach turn over on itself. He doesn’t like this. Yosuke had watched Souji disappear through the door to the stairs, not towards the bathroom like anyone feeling nauseas would do, so unless Souji had been heading for another floor to go throw up then he would have had to have gotten sick before even coming back to the classroom. Which would mean his sprint down the hall was something else entirely. Not only that, but Yosuke knows for a fact that Souji passed Naoto on the stairs, which meant he’d been heading downward and well away from any of the closest or even second closest toilets. If he’d left right after he’d thrown up, then Souji should have either _not_ been running like Chie had offered to make lunch and instead been dragging himself out the door, or he should have been running _to a bathroom_ and _then_ leaving.

Nothing in the time frame adds up, and the resulting implications leave Yosuke floundering. His head goes around and around in circles, wanting to believe Naoto’s texts that Souji is okay, that he just got really, really sick and had to go home. But Yosuke has spent literal months now learning to think critically, to look at inconsistencies and pick them apart, and while he’s no Naoto when it comes to mysteries he would like to think he could spot when something is clearly _not right_ when it comes to his best friend.

He’s aware that Naoto could have just given them the absolute minimum information and that there is a longer explanation waiting for them all when they get to school. However, Naoto had been just as visibly rattled as Yosuke had felt when he’d found them in the stairwell, which is hard for Yosuke to explain away with his current lack of insight. The fact that they’d had no clue where Souji had gone, and had even helped Yosuke look for him leaves another gap in their short span of time where everything could have happened.

He doesn’t want to think that Naoto is lying. He _absolutely_ doesn’t want to think that Souji is.

But there’s nothing Yosuke can do without more information, and he isn’t going to get that just standing around. Gritting his teeth, he stamps down on the rising tide of dark thoughts and nebulous feelings. He doesn’t want to face any of it, doesn’t want to think about what some of his theories might imply. He also doesn’t want to look too deeply at his own reactions to this, because it means he’s either wildly overacting or that something is genuinely amiss. A lapse back into his old clingy, annoying, friendless self, or his best friend potentially being hurt or hiding something. Neither option is comforting.

The clock above the counter tells him he needs to leave now to get to school without a rush. He stuffs the phone back into his pocket and grabs his bag and forcibly tries to keep his mind from reaching further and further into the place where his anxiety dwells. His thoughts are carefully blank as he shuffles his way over to the door and opens it on the dull light of the morning sky. He blinks against the brightness, standing still in the entryway for a moment until he can make his vision settle and his nervous pulse subside.

Outside his house is like a different world; the broken dawn is pink and burnt gold and it casts everything in its wake in a weirdly yellow glow. There are birds somewhere in the distance, chirping sporadically like they, too, have no idea how to be awake at this hour. It’s a stark contract to the quiet, sleepy dark back inside Yosuke’s kitchen.

As he finally works up the will to start his trek, Yosuke takes a second to glance at his reflection in the mirror his mother had insisted on hanging in the entryway when they’d moved in, to _“make sure everyone looks their best before facing the day”._ What stares back at him is a pale, jittery-looking version of himself, with deep blue circles beneath his eyes and hair that clearly hasn’t seen a comb in far too long. He grimaces at how wan he looks, at the exhaustion etched into his skin along with the worry lines now marring his forehead.

He leaves the house quickly, not wanting to look at himself anymore or give his brain a long enough pause to start thinking again. As he closes the door behind him he tells himself that the shiver he got from his reflection’s sightless stare is just the lack of sleep, and that it was only the light from the sun along the horizon that tinted the world and made his eyes look a sickly shade of gold.

 

 

Naoto does not, in fact, give them any new information once everyone is gathered at school. Yosuke talks to Yukiko and Chie for a minute or so before classes start to see if they know or have heard anything he might have missed. They don’t, and after Chie tells him he looks like shit (to which he only gives a half-hearted retort because honestly, she’s right) they confirm that they didn’t get a chance to catch Naoto in person that morning, either.

The school day begins and Yosuke barely pays attention. He keeps glancing forlornly at Souji’s empty desk, sneaking peeks at his phone under his own. There are a few extra texts from the others in the group text, mostly reactionary exclamations, a flurry of sad emojis from Rise to go with her _“Oh no! Poor Senpai!_ ” but no one seems inclined to press Naoto for more details. He gets it to some degree; no one else but Kanji saw Souji’s escape down the hallway and only Naoto passed him on the stairs, so the only other person that _might_ ask besides Yosuke would be Kanji, and Kanji didn’t seem to notice what Yosuke did. So no one asks.

Yosuke sends a mass text of his own, asking for everyone to meet up during lunch. He words it as well as he can, trying to hide behind the reasoning that they had all been worried about Souji and playing off the fact that Souji apparently hasn’t contacted anyone else so could Naoto fill them in on what all Souji said to them, please? Everyone agrees, though some take longer to respond than others due to classes and Naoto takes their time replying until they’re the last one to do so. Yosuke tries not to make anything of it.

He can’t tell if he succeeds.

Teddie messages him around late morning, sending Yosuke a string of whiny texts and a few teary emojis, just as Yosuke had predicted he would. Yosuke responds with a short “srry ted I was letting u sleep” and “leftovers r urs”, which earns him a few more pout emojis before Teddie evidently forgives him. It’s a minor distraction, but one that Yosuke is grateful for nonetheless. His interaction with Teddie feel normal, routine, like Yosuke’s entire world hasn’t been a total mess for the past 24 hours. He makes a mental note to buy the bear a box of his favorite topsicles – both as a way to cheer him up after waking to an empty house and also as a thank you so that Yosuke doesn’t have to do it out loud and get stuck explaining his mental state.

When lunch finally hits, Yosuke and Chie and Yukiko all head off to the roof together to meet up with the rest of the team – minus their leader and living plush-doll of a mascot. Naoto is already there by the time the rest of them arrive. They look tired; there is a thinness to their mouth, a glassiness to their eyes that speaks of a night spent just as sleepless as Yosuke. He remembers how scared they’d looked the day before after Souji had disappeared, the deep, quiet fear that had lit them from within and made Yosuke think of an animal cornered at night, eyeshine bright and unnerving.

Nothing about any of this makes sense.

Naoto greets them; they all settle in. It takes up a good chunk of the lunch period for Naoto to basically rehash everything they’d said via text: that Souji had suddenly gotten violently ill in between the pageants, that they suspected it might be either food poisoning or “an acute bout of nerves”, that Souji had run off to go get sick and then gone straight home. That Souji had passed out and slept until that morning right before school and had called Naoto back after they’d messaged him again. That Souji was feeling better but not 100% still.

And the whole time they’re telling the story, Yosuke bites at his lips and feels his frown growing deeper and deeper.

He still doesn’t like the way the timeline of events just doesn’t seem to match up in a way that doesn’t have holes, no matter how he tries to fit the pieces together. The larger picture is fine, sure, but it’s the little things, the snags in time, the long stretch of silence and sudden explanation. There are just too many of them and Yosuke collects them in his head one after another and moves them around trying to find a way to match them up. His head is starting to hurt by the time Naoto finishes.

Everyone goes around and offers their sentiments as if Souji is there to hear them. They talk about going over to check on him after school but Naoto seems to think it won’t be necessary.

“Souji-senpai is most likely resting,” Naoto says. “Too many people all at once without warning could be detrimental.” They awkwardly shift their weight, tugging on their cap the way they do when they want to hide their face but also don’t want to be perceived as weak for showing their nervousness. Yosuke notes how they don’t look directly at anyone when they continue speaking.

“However, seeing as Senpai is – or was – awake and aware this morning of our attempts to contact him, I would say we should message him if we do plan on visiting. I’m certain he would appreciate the heads up, especially if he still isn’t feeling well.”

Everybody voices their agreement (and in the case of Rise, their obviously crush-tinted disappointment,) and even Yosuke has to admit that Naoto makes a good point. It still sits oddly in his chest, though. He curses his work schedule; he would absolutely be visiting Souji at home after school if he didn’t have to go in for a long night of stocking shelves. No matter how good a point Naoto may have made, Souji is missing a day of classes and no one could begrudge Souji’s best friend for taking him some notes, right?

Yosuke sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose when no one is looking.

After that is a whole lot of nothing. There is eating, some more discussion, (mostly about Souji but still nothing relevant to Yosuke’s mess of questions) and a bunch of texts all sent out to wish Souji a speedy recovery. None of them receives a reply, but it’s also entirely possible that Souji is doing exactly as Naoto said and resting. Yosuke hopes so.

Sadly, and to his understandable irritation, he doesn’t get a chance to ask Naoto any of the more in-depth questions he’d wanted to ask before the end of lunch sneaks up on them. The group begins to split up then, with Naoto somehow being the first one through the door back inside, robbing Yosuke of what is probably his final chance of the day.

Truth be told, Yosuke knows it’s partially his own fault. Rather than just squaring up and asking what he wanted to, he’d been stalling, waiting for a turn in the conversation to give him the answers he’d wanted without actually asking. He admits it to himself – albeit begrudgingly – because he’s seen first hand what happens when he doesn’t, and acknowledges that he’s afraid. Afraid of being proven wrong and thus having overreacted like the clingy idiot he knows he’s capable of being. Or worse, being proven right and having to deal with the knowledge that either his teammate or his leader or _both_ are keeping him in the dark. It would be a chain reaction at that point, one fear being affirmed leading to another one – one that Yosuke only lets himself think about when he absolutely has to, at his lowest and wide awake at 2:00am with his mind way too loud and full, to keep it from spawning another shadow.

_Do I matter?_

Chie kicks him gently (“gently”) in the butt to get him moving since he’s apparently just been standing there staring after Naoto. He lets her and Yukiko drag him back to the classroom and ignores the silent conversation that seems to pass between the two of them behind his back. He also ignores the strange way that Rise follows him with her eyes, a funny, down-turned expression settling on her features that he’s never seen before.

The day continues, the teachers drone, and Yosuke sits staring inconspicuously as possible down at his phone screen. A response to his previous slew of worried texts never comes, and no matter how he tries, Yosuke feels too many things too deeply and at once to be able to send any new ones just yet. He types and deletes what has to be a dozen aborted questions, shallow-seeming “get well soon”s, and by the time the day is over he’s still stuck at square one, eyes strained from staring at the glare of his screen for so long.

He trudges down to the shoe lockers, head still hurting, when the final bell sounds and resigns himself to waiting until after his shift to think of something to say to his partner that doesn’t sound stupid or needy or paranoid.

In the end his anxiety silences him completely, stilling his fingers and leaving the “how ru feelin prtnr? u comin 2 school 2mrrw?” hovering in the text bar on his screen unsent.

 

\---

 

_“Yosuke…”_

_Warm hands, fingers ghosting over skin, over planes of muscle, dipping into the line where waist meets hips. Breath catching, stuttering in a flat, toned chest, a hot exhale against his cheek as blunted nails dig into his shoulders, holding him in place. The taste of salt, of skin beneath his tongue, fresh like rain and sharp like ozone. A pulse like distant thunder under his mouth. He presses forward, closer, tighter, shifts his knee to press it between shaking legs, holds them steady with his hands and feels the flex of thighs under his palms._

_Hips grind against him. Lips catch at his, kissing, parting, giving him room to slide his tongue inside. He pulls back and nips at them, drawing the bottom one, plush and sweet, between his teeth before pressing back in and licking them apart._

_Hands glide lower, inward, touching, teasing, tugging at fabric and pulling it open, down, fingertips running hot across a band of elastic before slipping inside. A trail of kisses across a sharp jaw. Teeth grazing skin, sucking, biting, leaving little marks of purple in their wake. A gasp, a groan, a throaty sound of need and pleasure as he laves his tongue back over the pulse point, sending vibrations through another chest and into his own. Heat beneath his fingers, a tightness deep below his hips._

_"Yosuke please…”_

_He pushes his knee in further, scratches his nails along soft thighs, taut like velvet over steel. Hips roll to meet his hand; his palm meets warm flesh, brushes over it, presses the heel of his hand down to elicit another halted breath, another ragged whisper of his name. A body clinging to his own, hot and slick and trembling, fingers fisting in his hair, skin on skin on skin on skin, moving to a rhythm he sets, slow and wicked. He bites a collarbone and the arms around him tighten, the long line of a pale throat exposed as lips fall open in a moan and a head tilts back, hands pulling him closer, clutching, panting, shaking._

_“Partner!”_

 

Yosuke sits bolt upright in bed, heart pounding against the inside of his ribs like it’s trying to break free.

For a moment he doesn’t know where he is; his bedroom is dark and unfamiliar in its witching-hour silence with only the quiet snoring from his closet to break it. The faint glow of his phone charging beside the bed becomes his grounding point and he stares at it until his mind clears enough to refocus on his surroundings. Alone. He’s alone, there’s no one in his bed but him. He’s in his room and he’s alone in his bed – no hips beneath his hands, no skin against his lips. No breathy voice in his ear whispering how good his touch feels, murmuring his name, spurring him on.

_Oh god._

Yosuke shivers at the memory, at the phantom image of someone warm and solid arcing against him. Something _aches_ low in his gut and he realizes with a burning face just how _painfully_ hard he is. He feels it throbbing between his legs like a bruise and bites his lip to stamp down a desperate whine.

_Alone, I’m alone, it was just a dream, I’m alone…_

But Yosuke can still feel he pressure of another body against his own. He can still feel _everything:_ the fingers in his hair, the legs around his hips, the stretch of an elastic waistband across the back of his wrist as if he’s delved his hand below someone’s boxers. He feels all of it. He can still taste another tongue when he swipes his across his lips, still tingling like he’s just been kissed, is still leaving hickies on his best friend’s throat—

Yosuke slaps a hand over his mouth to mask the heavy, raspy sound of his own too-thin breathing. It burns in his lungs, breaths too deep but air too dry and it feels like he isn’t getting any oxygen at all. Sweat beads along his hairline, at the nape of his neck, and when he parts his lips to try and breathe through his mouth he can taste the telltale salt of it across his clammy palm.

Souji. He’d just had a sex dream about _Souji._

His best friend, his partner, their goddamn leader. Yosuke feels the rush of adrenaline as it washes through him in a wave, leaving his limbs cold and trembling like he’s just been dunked in ice water. The slow creep of panic itches at his nerves. He doesn’t know what to do; what is he _supposed_ to do? How in the ever-loving fuck is he meant to process the fact that he’s just had the single most intense sex dream of his entire _life_ and it was about another _guy?_

And not just _any_ guy – he’s just had a sex dream about his best. Fucking. Friend.

There is a twitch and throb between his thighs and Yosuke thinks he might _actually_ start crying.

He swallows, weak and useless against the dryness in his throat, and bites at his tongue until he tastes the coppery tang of his own blood. He’s dizzy. Dizzy and confused and scared to death and back, but…

_But._

But he can’t ignore how hard he is. He can’t ignore that everything in his dream was _amazing_ , that it left him aching and needy and wishing he could slow his speeding heart and go back to sleep, just so he could return to the feeling of dream-Souji pulling him closer as he came over Yosuke’s hand.

“…Fuck.”

The sound of his own voice – while barely a whisper – still startles Yosuke in the near-perfect quiet of the room. It’s high and desperate, absolutely wrecked like it hasn’t been since he faced his shadow. Expect this time it isn’t _fear_ lacing the single word that’s slipped from his mouth. It’s _desire._

Without really thinking, Yosuke throws off the covers as quietly as he can and disentangles himself from the bed. He stares at the closet door like a feral, frightened cat, watching for any sign that Teddie has heard him. When nothing happens, Yosuke moves.

He creeps over to the door, pausing only to grab a pair of underwear from the floor as he goes. He doesn’t even know if they’re clean, doesn’t even care; right now he just needs something to take with him that isn’t what he’s wearing right now. He can feel the sweat sinking in to his shirt, the waist of his sleep pants – which is bad enough – but worst of all is how he can feel the sticky-slick patch of precum starting to seep into his boxers.

On shaky legs, Yosuke makes his way out the door and down the hall towards the bathroom. He goes as silently as he can, taking care to avoid the spots in the floor that he knows are prone to creaking, reaching out to steady himself against the wall whenever his knees start to buckle. It’s slow going. His erection makes it hard to walk without hissing through his teeth, and with every passing second he can hear the way his heart hammers inside his chest – so loud he thinks that Teddie must have been deaf not to hear it.

He reaches the bathroom after what feels like eons, thankful it’s been left open so the tiny nightlight in the hall can lead sleep-foggy people to it in the middle of the night. (Or in this case, a jittery teenager.) He slides inside like he’s afraid someone will be waiting for him just past where the light reaches and shuts the door behind him with a muffled click, locking it the moment that it’s closed.

He passes by the mirror on his way to the shower and pointedly does not look.

Cranking the cold water up as high as it will go, not even touching the hot, Yosuke stares at the frigid cascade like it can possibly save him. Sometimes, when his dreams turn dirty with short skirts and breathy panting straight from the porn he keeps hidden in a special folder on his computer, Yosuke is able to will the resulting arousal away. He’s lucky – he hasn’t woken up to an unexpected mess in his boxers since before his family moved. He still gets hard in his sleep though, sometimes; usually he’s able to just think of the shadows in the TV world and roll over onto his stomach to flush the images from his mind. He wakes slightly irritable, but at least he’s able to sleep.

Tonight though, he knows there’s no hope. With all the slowness of a man facing his execution, Yosuke peels off the sweat-covered t-shirt and sweatpants, tossing them into the corner to retrieve later. He sets the second pair of underwear over to the side and gingerly begins the process of slipping off the ones he’s wearing.

It’s a nightmare. Each drag of fabric over his electrified skin is like torture, leaving him off-kilter and gritting his teeth against the over stimulation. He nearly falls over as he tries to maneuver them past his dick, which is still so abysmally hard that it’s a miracle he made it from his bedroom without passing out due to poor circulation. He stifles a pained noise as the chilly air outside his boxers hits his overheated flesh, clamping his lips together and biting down until it hurts. The cold water is going to _suck_.

He steps into the shower and immediately hates everything.

Fighting back another sound of dismay, Yosuke lets the icy stream pour over him, jolting him to full wakefulness and sending an instant, violent shiver through his entire body. He stands there with his arms crossed futilely over his chest, instinctively trying to hold in what little body heat he can, even as he wills the water to just freeze his burning blood and make it so he can go back to bed before his alarm goes off for school.

This sucks. Everything sucks. He’s awake at stupid-o-clock in the morning with a boner that won’t go away and the sound of his best friend’s moaning playing over and over again in his ears like a looping, skipping record. He hates the way it makes his stomach swoop like he’s flying, makes his skin prickle like he swell of lightning before it strikes; it scares him, he shouldn’t be feeling this. Instead of desperate and turned on, secretly wishing the dream had been longer, he should be sick, put off, _angry._ He should be disgusted about the way the dream has made his heart race and his fingers itch to touch, to _feel,_ the way he keeps licking at his lower lip as if hoping the taste of Souji’s kiss still lingers in the waking world. But he’s not. The only disgust he feels is at himself and the way he cannot lie away the fact that he _liked it._ He’s more afraid of how wrong it _didn’t_ feel than by how _right_ it did.

Yosuke shakes his head and fists a hand through his wet hair, trying to pull the feel of _Souji_ from his memory.

Minutes pass and his arousal doesn’t flag. The cold digs into his skin like needles, numbing everything it touches and leaving him shuddering in the absence of warmth. The contrast of the chill against the heat of his body is almost painful – like a gust of winter wind over a feverish throat – and even the numbness the water brings isn’t enough to completely drown out the feeling. Yet still his erection persists.

With a groan of defeat, Yosuke reaches over and twists the knob for the hot water, turning the cold down a little as he does, and then wisely steps back out of the spray. He waits, shivering, holding his hand under the showerhead until his body can tolerate the change in temperature without feeling like he’s being scalded, although at this point he’s almost desperate enough to consider it. Maybe if he turns it up to boiling he can strip the image of dream-Souji pinned beneath him from his mind.

He steps back under the water, wincing slightly at the feel of heat on his frozen skin. _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, goddamnit!_ He leans forward and rests his head against the wall just under the showerhead, feeling the rush of water trickle across his shoulders as he lets the frustrated burn behind his eyes crest and fade. He can’t do this. He _can’t._ Vision blurring in the droplets running down his face, Yosuke reaches a shaking hand down and curling his still-numb fingers around himself. He hisses at the contact, knees almost giving out at the rush of _feeling_ just that simple action elicits.

_FUCK._

Giving in, Yosuke takes a second to reach for the bottle of conditioner just off to the side and takes two pumps into his hand. He slides his fingers through it, smearing it across his palm as best he’s able, before wrapping his hand back around himself. He takes a deep breath and starts to stroke.

He forgoes all preamble, any technique he would normally employ, any trick he’d use to draw it out, he tosses them all to the back of his mind. It’s not even about pleasure right now; it’s about relief. He’s so agonizingly turned on that he just wants this over, just wants it to _go away_ so he can go back to sleep and pretend this never happened. He doesn’t think about how he’s going to act around his partner whenever Souji shows back up at school – he tries not to think at all.

He brings his other arm up to brace him against the tiled shower wall above his head, spreading his legs a little to widen his stance and keep from falling. He closes his eyes against the stark white of the tile, too bright in the overhead lighting and too close to his face. He tightens his grip.

It works to take the edge off – the slow slide of his fist over his length, helped by the conditioner – but it’s not enough. He quickens his pace, rubs the pad of his thumb under the head. It _helps,_ but it’s _not enough._

Gritting his teeth, Yosuke delves deep into his memory and tries to conjure up images from some of his favorite porno: Busty women with tiny waists and long legs, panting as they rode dick like it was their favorite thing in the world. He tries to picture what they sound like when they moan, tries to remember which girls he finds the hottest, which set of breasts got him off the fastest the last time he watched.

Something feels sour in the back of his mouth.

He switches tactics, thinks of some of the girls from school that he’d fantasized about in the past. Faceless figures in their cute uniform skirts, summer outfits with no tights or jackets to obscure their flawless skin. He’d picked out his favorite attributes long ago, even with the girls he’s never met, never spoken to – he keeps a mental list of whose asses he likes the best, which ones he thought would look cutest on their backs with their thighs wrapped around him. It doesn’t work.

With a choked whine through clenched teeth, Yosuke twists his wrist at the end of his stroke, pleading with anyone listening that it makes him feel _something._ The motion is there, the pressure, the heat of his palm, but it just not what he needs. Something isn’t right, isn’t letting him reach any closer.

Desperate and impulsive, he goes to the one surefire thing that’s always worked for him before, no matter how pent up or over stimulated he’d been: he pictures Risette in her latest swimsuit photos.

Guilt immediately burns though his veins and rises to the back of his throat like acid. He shoves off the wall, letting go of his dick and nearly stumbling backwards, gasping in shock at the way his mind recoils. _That’s **Rise!** _his own brain shrieks at him. _That’s your **teammate** , how could you?!_

Yosuke leans back against the far wall of the shower and runs his cleaner hand across his face. He lets it rest there, over his eyes, as he sucks in breath after deep, horrified breath and waits for the roll of bile and sickening shame to subside. He stays there for countless minutes, gnawing at his lip while he breathes, until the utter mortification of what he’d just tried to do finally begins to ebb and leave him be. All the while his dick still aches with unspent arousal, tension tight and ruthless along his shoulders and hips.

“Fuck.”

Slowly Yosuke pulls his hand away from his face and lets it fall to the side. He stares upward with dull eyes, barely focusing on anything but the hazy texture of the ceiling above him. “Fuck…”

He’s screwed. He doesn’t know what else to do; he’s done the cold shower method, switched to hot to shock his system, tried to let his body wait it out, all to no avail. Thinking about porn doesn’t work, thinking about girls doesn’t work, hell, even thinking about _nothing_ still leaves him hard and unsatisfied. Speed doesn’t seem to make a difference, nor does pressure or movement. The stimulation is good in the way that any kind of touch against his erection is, but it’s hollow. There’s nothing – he feels nothing and it’s _killing_ him.

Yosuke weighs his options. He can give up now and go back to bed, hope that maybe if he lays there long enough he’ll be able to go to sleep and his hard on will be gone in the morning. He grimaces; no, what will probably end up happening is he’ll either be wide awake and rock solid for the rest of the night, leaving him to be uncomfortable in an entirely different way when the alarm goes off and Teddie wakes up, (and his parents if they happen to be home,) or he’ll sleep, but he’ll _dream._

His dick twitches at that, sending a trickle of fire through his groin, his thighs, his abdomen. It knocks what’s left of his exhalation from his lips.

Would it… really be so bad?

He thinks about the way dream-Souji’s body had fit so perfectly against his own – the scrape of fingernails down his back, a tongue across the seam of his lips. He thinks about the image of messy silver hair, damp with sweat and sticking up in places where Yosuke’s fingers had curled and tugged; he pictures glazed, rain-puddle eyes, half-lidded and looking at him as if Yosuke is the only thing his partner could ever need again.

There’s another twitch, a pulse, and slowly his hand begins to slide between his thighs.

He’s familiar enough his own body by now that he knows there’s a chance the dream will come back and that he’ll just have the same problem all over again, if it ever actually even goes away to begin with. Any relief he might get from finally passing out will likely be short-lived at best. Again, that’s if he manages to fall asleep at all.

No matter what he does, the feel of Souji’s heartbeat under his lips is going to be etched into Yosuke’s mind for _hours_. Would it be horrible if he just…?

His hand wraps back around his length and tentatively, _tentatively_ begins to stroke. It feels _incredible._

Yosuke lets out a long, shuddering exhale as every nerve ending that’s been lying dormant since he fist climbed into the shower jolts to life as if electrified. He slides his hand up again and tightens his fingers, strokes all the way down and glides his palm over the head. It’s like the first time he’d ever summoned Jirya – a buzzing, tingling sensation that had started somewhere at the base of his skull and spread to every limb in his body, leaving him warm and giddy with his newfound rush of power. Now, though, instead of the surge of a hurricane releasing from his mind he feels the low, simmering heat pooling in his gut and trickling outward, further and further with every pass of his hand. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall behind him, finally letting the pictures on the backs of his eyelids out into view.

_Souji underneath him, pressed into the mattress with Yosuke’s knee between his thighs, breath hitching as he watches Yosuke with eyes like frosted rain. Souji’s lips – capable of summoning lightning and calling out commands in the midst of battle – parting in a gasp that sinks into a moan. Souji’s stormy eyes sliding shut. Souji panting, begging, whispering Yosuke’s name with the same kind of reverence Yosuke has used before in awe of Souji’s power. Yosuke’s fingers in Souji’s mouth, his hand in Souji’s pants; tongue and teeth and a trail of bites and kisses against Souji’s rabbiting pulse._

_Souji’s hips bucking up against him, a whimper, a keen – what would he sound like? Would he be quiet like he is in real life? Or would he scream and tremble as Yosuke took him apart? High-pitched and breathy? Or a growl, low and dark and gravelly; a single sign of his god-like patience finally snapping before he dug his nails into Yosuke’s shoulders and flipped them over to ride him instead?_

Yosuke’s body jerks. Heat and lighting crackle through his skin, setting his nerves on fire, causing him to gasp in shock at just how _much_ it is. Somewhere in the back of is mind he thinks he hears Jirya purr.

He licks at his lips, bites them to hold back the quiet whimper he can feel building in his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and replays the image against the stars now flickering in and out of his sight.

_Souji in his lap. Yosuke’s grip on his hips, his thighs, guiding him up and down as Souji grinds against him; sweat-slick, hot. His lips, his teeth, his tongue on Souji’s neck, gentle kisses pressed to darkening bites, claiming, marking. Souji’s hands grasping, scrabbling, leaving claw marks on Yosuke’s shoulders. Souji has such graceful hands; Yosuke wants to pin them above his head, to find out what kinds of sounds Souji makes; wants to drive him to the point of desperation so that he begs and pleads for Yosuke to let him come. He wants to run his fingers across the expanse of Souji’s body, feel Souji’s hipbones under his hands, lave his tongue and sink his teeth into the soft, strong flesh of Souji’s thighs._

_Souji in his bed, in his arms. Souji crying out as Yosuke rolls his hips and drives himself deeper. Souji, Souji, Souji…_

“Souji…”

The name falls from Yosuke’s lips and he feels the stings coiled deep inside him start to pull, taut and sharp. The sound of it spears through him; it settles in his fingertips, in the balls of his feet, wraps around the base of his spine and stretches upwards like ivy and Yosuke barely has time to slap his free hand over his mouth before his whole body lights up brighter than an aurora. He clamps his teeth down on his middle finger, so hard he can feel the press of bone between his teeth.

And then Yosuke is coming. Hard and intense and without any warning – with his partner’s name on his tongue like a prayer.

 

 

Sound is the first thing that returns to him; the quiet spray of water, his own ragged breathing. Slowly he opens his eyes, blinking against the sharpness of the light and the glossy tile it’s reflecting off of. Blank eyed, he stares at the rivulets of water running down the wall beside him. His lungs take in a deep, long breath and he centers on the way his chest expands.

By the time he’s fully back in his own body, back in his soundless house in a tiny little town in the middle of the night, the shower water has started to grow cold again. He watches as it circles the drain, spiraling, mixing with the remnants of what he’s just done and washing it away out of sight. He leans his full weight back against the wall and carefully sinks to the floor.

What did he just do?

Oh _god,_ what did he just do?

Yosuke brings his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and burying his face into his knees. He digs his forehead, his nose, his mouth into his skin as hard as he can, as if he can somehow smother the knowledge of his actions if he just presses hard enough.

_What the **fuck** am I supposed to do now?_

He stays under the ever-colder spray of water as his mind begins to devour itself, sitting hunched and shaking until all traces of heat are completely gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Tl;dr: Yosuke has a sex dream about Souji, wakes up hard, and proceeds to panic. He takes a cold shower to calm down. It doesn't work, so he tries to masturbate but can't get anywhere when thinking about girls. He almost thinks about Rise, immediately feels guilty, panics again, and then just gives up and thinks about Souji, which gives him the best orgasm of his life. Gay Crisis sets in.)
> 
>  Fic title is taken from 'The Grey' by Icon For Hire.
> 
> Listen to the playlist on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/qr3jt923f3k6r9qxlt514mopm/playlist/7wqvOlmp9wxe8FT6B9pALQ) or [Youtube.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLo73OgaRqSRHtyrRk4R35il-_3b4supLS)
> 
> Like my work? Wanna geek out with me or buy me a coffee? Come and hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/DaemonSparks) or [tumblr](http://chroniccombustion.tumblr.com/)~


	5. We're Not Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He turns the music up higher, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and hunching inward as if he can somehow make himself small enough to hide from his own mind.
> 
> _You’re just going to ruin everything like you always do. You push and you whine until nobody can stand you anymore. That’s why Souji isn’t speaking to you._
> 
> Shaky, anxious energy tingles its way down Yosuke’s legs, settles in his bones like a live current through a power line.
> 
>   _Maybe it’ll be a good thing if he doesn’t show up to school – you really want him to see your shitty self-absorption? Cuz he will. You know he will; it’s Souji, nothing gets past him. He’ll take one look at you and he’ll know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws up hands* WHELP! About a week after uploading the previous chapter, right after I got back from visiting my mom out of town, I had a whole bunch of things happen in rapid succession: my mental health dipped for no real reason (cuz it just be like that sometimes), I had to go _back_ out of town, and then clean out of _state_ to get the rest of our stuff from a storage unit left over from when we moved in November. After that was another trip down to see my mom because she's getting ready for hip surgery next month and I'm needed at her pre-op appointments. And all the while I'm trying to write a new chapter - just for my own sanity - that absolutely refuses to be written. >_< I think I wrote this thing about three times over and deleted more pages than I finished.
> 
> But I finally got the damn thing to work with me. It's not... exactly what I was hoping it would be, I think it's probably the weakest chapter so far, but I'm happy with what I managed to get onto paper and it'll do its job of bridging the action just fine. So please forgive me for the accidental hiatus there, and also for not responding to comments like I normally do. (Hello new readers from chapter 4!) My ADHD told me I couldn't answer anybody until I got this chapter done - which doesn't make any sense but hey, executive dysfunction. 
> 
> I love you guys, and I missed you all like whoa! <3 It feels so good to finally be able to post again~
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **CHAPTER WARNINGS: INTERNALIZED HOMOPHOBIA AND MILD HOMOPHOBIC LANGUAGE**

_“Said that we’re not lovers,_  
_cuz we’re just strangers_  
_with the same damn hunger_  
_to be touched, to be loved, to feel anything at all…”_

_(“Strangers – feat Lauren Jauregui”, Halsey)_

**_November_ **

 

Yosuke sits under the frigid cascade of water until the entire bathroom becomes an icebox, forcing him to finally push to his feet and shut the shower off just to stop the way his body has begun to violently shiver. He barely feels it, only notices because of how his skin prickles with goose bumps and his hands fumble with the knobs. Climbing out of the shower, he grabs a towel and halfheartedly dries himself off, scrubs it through his hair a couple of times to get the excess water out. He doesn’t need to do much to it, though, since the way he’d been sitting, the spray had mostly hit his folded legs and arms, missing the majority of his hair and leaving it to dry slightly on its own. He doesn’t know what that says about his sense of time. Probably something bleak.

He slips into his questionably clean change of underwear and pulls his sleep clothes back on with all the sluggishness of a blistering hangover. Bleary-eyed, he scoops up the discarded pair of boxers without really seeing them and makes sure not think too hard about the shame-riddled piece of fabric in his hand.

Yosuke is thankful the mirror is still streaky with moisture and the last dregs of remaining steam still clinging to the glass; it distorts the view of his reflection as he passes. He doesn’t want to see himself, doesn’t want to look himself in the eyes and see the weight of what he’s done etched into the rings of his irises, doesn’t want to acknowledge his own presence in this liminal space of a bathroom. All he wants is to forget any of this ever took place, to trudge back to bed and try to get what precious little sleep he still can before the light of reality reaches in through the windows and he’s forced to join the waking world. He keeps his eyes half focused as he shuffles over to the door and reaches the hand not full of wadded-up boxers out to twist the lock until it clicks open. The movement of his reflection catches at the side of his vision and for a moment he’s tempted to glance over.

He stops himself before he can.

With the door now unlocked, Yosuke lets go of the knob and reaches across himself towards the light switch with his free hand – the other hanging heavy as lead with his dirty boxers at his side. It’s an old habit by now, turning off the light before he opens the door. He’s learned the hard way over years of late night tip-toeing around his parents’ work schedules that flooding the darkened hallway with a sudden burst of brightness is a sure-fire way to let someone know he’s awake. Even now with his brain in a fog, muscle memory kicks in and Yosuke’s fingers instinctively seek out the little piece of plastic on the wall beside the door. He flicks it down and the room is plunged into claustrophobic dark.

He blinks against the sudden blindness as he waits for the nightlight to cut itself back on in the absence of light. He uses the faint orange glow to help him find the doorknob again, carefully turning it and pulling the door open as soundlessly as he can, peeking around the thin opening to scan the hall and listen for movement beyond his pocket of space. Nothing. Only the low hum of the refrigerator down in the kitchen below.

With a deep breath that his lungs don’t seem to register, Yosuke pulls the door open all the way – as if it had never been shut to begin with. The air in the hallway is actually warmer than it is in the bathroom; the cold of the water that had chilled the tile like an open window in winter hasn’t yet seeped out into the hall. It feels strange against Yosuke’s skin, his body still hypersensitive but numbed at the same time because of the freezing shower spray. Even through his sweatpants he can feel the difference in temperature.

(Maybe if he’s lucky he’ll catch a cold and get to call in sick to life.)

Yosuke lets a shiver or two pass through him before he starts the short trek back towards his room, making sure he’s steady enough to sneak the way he needs to. As he takes his first few steps out into the dark, just before the glow of the nightlight passes between him and the rest of the silent, sleeping house, Yosuke catches the flicker of movement from his reflection in the mirror. He keeps his eyes trained forward so he doesn’t have to watch his own walk of shame.

If there is a flash of distorted gold within the mirror’s depths or if his reflection’s movement seems out of sync with his own, like something just past the glass has turned to watch him as they both walk, then Yosuke staunchly ignores it. His mind has already betrayed him too many times tonight to bother looking for more.

           

 

He climbs back into bed and eventually manages to fall into a thankfully dreamless sleep. It only lasts for two and a half hours.

 

 

The morning comes in like a blow to the head.

It starts with Yosuke’s alarm blaring in his ear and startling him awake. He flails, forgetting where he is in his adrenaline-fueled stupor, and gets himself wrapped in the sheets for a minute until he can wrest an arm out and slap his hand down on top of the clock.

The peace and quiet lasts just long enough for Yosuke’s heart rhythm to start resembling something normal. Then, with all the untamed force of a comet, Teddie decides that he, too, would like to ruin everything and dive-bombs onto Yosuke’s bed with a long, drawn-out, “Good moooooooooorning, Yosuke!”

And thus the day begins.

Yosuke spends the next few minutes disentangling himself from the sentient plushie toy trying to hug him to death. It takes longer than it should. Teddie whines, of course, as he usually does when Yosuke baps him in the face with a pillow, but at least he has the decency this time to release his captive long enough for Yosuke to get out of the bed.

The next half hour or so is an exercise in patience as Yosuke maneuvers around in the pre-dawn dark in an attempt to get ready for school – digging out a clean shirt, searching for his uniform jacket with increasing frustration until finally remembering he’d left it downstairs – all while continuously tripping over the lanky, blond barnacle that has attached itself to his side. But, as exhausted as he is physically, and as much as Teddie grates on his nerves, Yosuke knows the reason it’s been ramped up to eleven this morning is because Teddie still feels pouty and dejected after Yosuke (in Teddie’s words) “a-bear-ndoned” him the day before. Not that he would ever say it out loud to him, but Yosuke does have to admit the guy has a pretty valid reason this time, even if the resulting “bear hugs” cause Yosuke to nearly fall on his face more than once. Eventually (though with much begrudged sighing), Yosuke gives up and lets his new brother-not-brother hang off him like some kind of deranged belt while he gathers up the textbooks he didn’t even open last night.

Next comes the process of actually _leaving_ the room. Teddie makes it difficult to listen out the door for sounds of life downstairs, but after a few minutes of shushing, Yosuke is able to determine there is either no one else in the house (most likely), or one or both of his parents are still dead asleep (less likely). Yosuke takes the gamble and slides out into the hallway, silently praying he and Teddie are alone right now.

The hallway is where Yosuke’s anxiety decides it wants to come out and play.

For a second he’s fine; the bear acts as a decent distraction, what with his insistence on not being left alone for more than a moment, and Yosuke can focus his brain on trying to walk without falling over. It’s when he looks up and the door to the bathroom comes into view that the horrible, knotted dread in the pit of his stomach rears back up and makes itself known. Yosuke stumbles to a halt just before crossing through the doorway, leaving Teddie to nearly plow into him at the abrupt stop.

 _They’re gonna know,_ his treacherous mind sniggers at him. _Your parents already know – there’s gonna be a note waiting for you on the kitchen counter when you go downstairs, or a text from your mom saying she wants to talk to you when you get home from school. There’s no way someone didn’t hear you last night…_

Yosuke clamps his teeth down on his tongue so hard that he feels his molars slice through the side of it. There is a faint tang of metal in his mouth.

 _It’s fine,_ he tries to tell himself.

_Is it? Is it really?_

“Yosuke?” Teddie asks from behind him, voice muffled where he’d run face-first into Yosuke’s back. He shifts away but keeps his hands clutched in Yosuke’s uniform shirt and when he speaks again his voice is clearer. “Why’d you stop walking?”

_Teddie’s gonna ask questions. He’s too naive to know right now but he’ll hear it from your parents and then he’ll ask about ‘scoring’ and won’t shut up until he **knows.** _

“Yosuke, helloooooooo!”

_And then he’ll tell everybody else._

“Yoooooosukeeeee!”

_He’ll tell **Souji.**_

Terror washes through him, cold and deep-seated like ice crystallizing in the marrow of his bones. There is a moment where he feels weightless, displaced, his stomach dropping out as he stares down from the edge of a towering precipice with no ground below him in sight. His breath catches in his mouth and hangs there in a frozen, aborted inhalation that never makes it down into his lungs.

Souji would hate him. From anyone else, Yosuke might be able to handle the looks of disgust and loathing; he’s grown pretty used to it already since moving to Inaba. Housewives and retired old men with nothing to do but scowl, classmates whose families blamed Junes for their own failing businesses and subsequently viewed him as its embodiment. He’s _used_ to it. Members of the Investigation Team, too, sometimes, when he’s being particularly annoying – he’s caught a few of his friends share looks of aggravation before, after he’s said something he knows is stupid even as he says it. Especially in the beginning. They might not hate him the way that so many others in the town do, but he knows he pisses them off sometimes and it wouldn’t come as much of a shock were any one of them to suddenly decide he wasn’t worth it. A tiny, pessimistic part of him keeps expecting it, even. _One day,_ it whispers. _One day…_

But Souji.

If _Souji_ ever turned that kind of frigid, hateful gaze in his direction, if _Souji_ ever spat words of vehemence to his face, behind his back, cursed his name as if he had the plague – or _worse._ If Souji ever looked at him with vacant eyes, with icy, empty apathy, glanced at him and saw only a waste of time and energy where friendship used to be, like Yosuke meant _nothing_ to him…

_You would break._

“YOSUKE!”

Yosuke yanks himself out of his thoughts with a physical jerk, nearly knocking back into Teddie right as the bear leans up to shout in his ear.

“Ted, hey!” he says, voice cracking and nearly loud enough to classify as a shout. He’s vaguely aware of the faint hysteria, the desperate edge of _fear_ that colors his words, and he takes a step backwards, angling to the side a bit so that a perplexed Teddie is somewhat between him and the bathroom door. “Look, how about you go first and I’ll just go use the one downstairs, okay?” _It’s okay,_ he tells himself; _if the shower is still wet then he probably won’t even notice. The bathroom doesn’t smell like anything except soap. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay…_

He breathes in as deeply as he can without making it obvious. Holds it. Lets it out. All the while he focuses on keeping himself there in the hallway, present in his current reality at ass-o-clock in the morning with a clingy, long-limbed not-human suction cupped to his arm.

 _It’s okay,_ he repeats, and gradually his heart rate begins to slow.

Teddie, on the other hand, watches Yosuke silently, blond brows furrowed and lips pursed as if he’s trying to decipher Yosuke’s sudden shift in demeanor. He stays that way for a good minute or so as Yosuke gets a handle on his breathing, appraising Yosuke intensely with an expression that looks far too serious on such a young face.

Then, suddenly, as though someone has flipped a switch, his expression goes from fervent, focused confusion to a childish, almost comically melodramatic pout.

“But whyyyyyyyy?” he whines, long and loud, seemingly no longer concerned about Yosuke’s odd behavior. There is a hint of sulk in the bear’s voice, exactly like a kid that’s been denied something he wants and gets huffy when Mom tells him no. He frowns up at Yosuke with eyes that are clearly too wide and watery to be anything other than a ploy. “Teddie wants to go in _together!”_

Yosuke just blinks.

“…What.”

He opens his mouth to say something else, something that might better convey just how blindsided that comment has left him, but his entire body is running on next to no sleep and has had far too many bouts of anxiety to function properly at such an ungodly hour of the morning. All he can do for what seems like an embarrassingly long few seconds is work his jaw open and closed while his brain tries to come up with something coherent to say.

All that eventually comes out is a flat, “…I’m sorry, you want to do _what?”_

Teddie’s pout deepens. “Yosuke was going to go brush his teeth, right? This bear needs to brush his teeth, too, so I thought we could do it at the same time.” He tugs on Yosuke’s arm, leaning his weight back on his heels and holding on so that he can sway side-to-side, jostling a still-blank-screened Yosuke in the process. “Pleeeeeeease, Yosuke?” he begs, “Nana-chan said her friends Yoko and Tsukino are sisters and they do everything together, even brush their teeth, and Teddie wants to do that with _his_ brother, too!”

That is… very much _not_ what Yosuke was expecting.

“ _Brother?!”_ he sputters, brain finally kick-starting back to life a split-second too late behind his mouth. “Since when am I your _brother?”_

The abrupt shift from his earlier tide of panic to _this_ leaves the space behind his eyes feeling pinched and tight; the culmination of too much weirdness and too little sleep. It isn’t that he hates the idea of being called “brother”, not really, and he’s pretty sure the both of them have been steadily heading towards this point for a while now – or, at least, the ever-increasing familiarity of having the bear around has grown into something he’d be hard pressed to feel normal without. But this is the first time it’s ever been acknowledged out loud, that Teddie himself has ever said anything of the sort, and to hear that he does, in fact, see Yosuke as family is… Well, not unwelcome, just thoroughly unexpected.

But Yosuke’s stumbling reaction must have come off as harsh and angry, rather than the shock that it actually is, because Teddie’s expression morphs from mopey and affronted to downright _heartbroken_ right before Yosuke’s eyes _._ “Sensei and Nana-chan call each other ‘brother’ and ‘sister’…” he mumbles, voice timid and uncharacteristically sad. The faint sparkle of tears starts to gather in the corners of his eyes and suddenly Yosuke feels like a complete and total _ass._

“Aw, Ted, no,” he says, and it sounds just a little nervous, just a little lost. He’s not used to comforting people – he’s not the person anyone usually seeks out for this kind of thing. More often than not, he’s the reason someone is upset in the first place.

He pats at Teddie’s head awkwardly. “C’mon, don’t do that.”

Not for the first time, Yosuke is reminded that Teddie really doesn’t have anybody outside of the Investigation Team and Nanako. Sure, Yosuke’s parents are letting the bear stay in their house, and his mom seems to have taken a bit of a shine to him and his eagerness to learn and help. But that’s not really the same as having friends or family. Teddie might have boundary issues (and even though it _sucks,_ Yosuke can kind of forgive him for it because of how new Teddie is to the human world), but being constantly lonely and bored with nothing to do but study other people and wish you could have that level of connection is… Honestly, it sounds pretty awful.

Besides, Teddie idolizes Souji, looks up to him like a little kid would their childhood hero, and also utterly _adores_ Nanako. It really shouldn’t have come as a surprise then, that the guy would eventually try and emulate their familial bond with the closest person to him, the one member of the group he actually _lives_ with.

Yosuke stares down at Teddie’s watery little face and something in him shifts. Pity, he thinks at first, but that doesn’t seem right at all. It’s warmer than that, closer to the chest, and try as he might he can’t name it properly. Whatever it is, though, it fills the space from which Yosuke’s initial shock at being called “brother” out of nowhere is slowly starting to drain. The more he lets it sit, the easier it feels, the more natural – like putting a name to something that already existed, or like a stone in a foundation that was always there, just not quite in place until someone pressed in exactly the right spot.

He can’t even summon up the will to stay annoyed.

With a long, drawn out sigh, Yosuke puts a bit more pressure on Teddie’s hair and ruffles it beneath his palm. “You just surprised me, okay? You can…” He pauses, his mouth feeling funny, and glances away from the teary gaze angled up at him for a second before turning back, resigned – though not unhappy about it. “…You can call me that if you want, I guess.”

The rapid, complete reversal in Teddie’s mood is _staggering,_ his dejected expression swiftly transforming into something blindingly bright and exuberant. “Just!” Yosuke starts, frantically cutting off whatever the bear is about to say. “Not where anyone else can hear you, alright?” Because really, it’s already hard enough trying to explain where Teddie came from to anyone that doesn’t know about the Midnight Channel; Yosuke doesn’t think he’d be able to come up with a new cover story if people start thinking he’s been hiding a secret younger sibling for the past year his family has been here. (And that’s not even counting the back bending he’d have to do if his parents overheard.)

Luckily Teddie doesn’t seem to mind this addendum at all, because suddenly there’s a scrawny pair of arms squeezing Yosuke’s middle like a ripe orange and Teddie is bawling into his shoulder for an entirely different reason. “OKAY!” he crows, thankfully muffled by Yosuke’s shirt.

Yosuke wheezes, teetering slightly as the hug knocks him off-balance. “Oh my _god,_ Ted!” he croaks. It goes unheard.

The mascot-turned-humanoid peels his face up out of Yosuke’s side and grins at him with the brilliance of a flickering star, eyes still shining with happy tears. “I promise, Yosuke-nii! Teddie will be the best little bear-ther _ever!”_

Yosuke winces at the volume so close to his ears. “Okay,” he huffs, “alright, cool, awesome, just _get off!”_ He paws at Teddie’s arms to try and dislodge them and alleviate the pressure from around his ribs. For someone made up of air and cotton roughly seventy-five percent of the time, Teddie has a surprisingly strong grip. “Seriously, Ted, that hurts.”

Teddie gives him one last _tight_ squeeze before letting him go, and Yosuke damn near topples over at the sudden loss of bear propping him up. He shoots the little blond anomaly an unamused look that Teddie seems far too gleeful to notice. Or if he does, he pays it no attention whatsoever.

Teddie twirls past Yosuke and into the bathroom, snagging Yosuke’s sleeve as he goes and tugging on it with a grin that could cause tooth decay. “Come on, come on! You’re gonna be late again!” he calls, sing-songing like it’s the most typical morning in all the waking world.

Yosuke stands there in the doorway for a moment longer, watching as Teddie grabs a nearby washcloth and douses it under the sink faucet before slapping it over his face with a resounding, soggy _‘smack!”_ Yosuke stifles a laugh.

Maybe he _should_ be more put out _,_ Yosuke thinks with just a hint of fondness, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t even a teensy bit glad to have the damn bear around sometimes, despite how rambunctious he can be. He finds it especially true in the moments of deafening quiet, when the household’s collective schedules refuse to line up and Yosuke is left on his own with a mind that likes to eat itself. He understands “lonely”, he understands “sad”, and if his first-ever encounter with Jirya is anything to go by, he more than understands that bored, restless feeling that comes with being alone.

“Yosuke-nii?” Teddie calls again, testing out the new moniker with obvious glee.

Shaking his head, Yosuke lets out a long, overdramatic noise from the back of his throat and rolls his eyes to hide the tiny, warm smile that threatens to lift at the corner of his mouth. “Alright, fine!” he grouses, though there’s no real heat behind it. “Just don’t hog the sink.”

He moves to follow after his unofficial sibling, hesitating for only a moment just inside the bathroom door before sucking in a steadying breath through his nose and stepping the rest of the way inside. Teddie once again doesn’t notice – nor does he even so much as glance at the shower, much to Yosuke’s relief. Instead, the bear gets to work making a mess of the counter as he squirts far too much toothpaste over the bristles of his cartoon-bear-covered yellow and blue toothbrush. Yosuke, for his part, simply lets out a quiet, “ug, gross,” and pretends to shove Teddie out of the way as he reaches for his own toothbrush. He has to keep up appearances, after all.

And hey, he’s always secretly kind of wanted a little brother.

As they both settle in to what remains of their morning prep, (with Teddie _absolutely_ hogging the sink) Yosuke finds he feels a weird sense of calm. It sinks into his skin like an ointment, smoothing over the last jagged dregs of his anxiety from before and effectively shielding his mind from thoughts of shame and vivid dreams.

The wariness still lingers slightly; he can feel it humming like a distant storm if he thinks about it too hard for just a second too long. It’s seeped around the edges like a stain and colors the new, easier atmosphere with the faintest hint of dingy yellow. To make sure it doesn’t spread, Yosuke unconsciously keeps himself close to the doorway with Teddie between him and the shower. He doesn’t look over at it, only lets it glint in the corner of his eye whenever he turns to jostle Teddie with his elbow or give him a _look_ for trying to speak with a mouth full of toothpaste. Every time he catches sight of the white tile just beyond his boisterous little brother’s head, Yosuke instinctively keeps his vision blurry and turns back towards the sink.

 

\---

 

The stain begins to bleed further in the longer the morning goes on.

It starts out okay. Teddie talks Yosuke’s ear off like the endless vat of energy that he is, reveling in his newfound status as an unofficially-official member of the family and effectively keeping Yosuke’s nerves at bay as they finish up in the bathroom. Nothing else of note takes place.

There _is_ a fleeting moment as they make their way downstairs where Yosuke remembers his earlier fear of finding an irate parent waiting to confront him, but the moment he touches down on the final stair and finds the rest of the house dark and empty, the vice around his lungs eases away. There is no surprise altercation; no one jumps out from around a corner to call Yosuke out for his late-night bathing habits. There isn’t even so much as a post-it from his mother stuck to the fridge like he’d been so convinced there would be not twenty minutes before. _No one knows,_ he tells his anxious mind, breathing out the last of the stiffness in his limbs.

Yosuke switches on the lights and helps Teddie rifle around in the kitchen for something that can function as breakfast. Their search is decently fruitful, if a bit lackluster, but given that neither of them are much good at anything requiring more commitment than a microwave, it’s really not too bad. By the time Teddie shoves him out the door with one last bone-breaking hug and a joyous, “Bye, Yosuke-niiiiiiiiiiii!!” they are both at least _fed._

The first part of the walk goes pretty smoothly as well. Yosuke plugs in his headphones and fires up the new album he’d downloaded over the weekend but never got a chance to listen to. He walks in time to the beat, still feeling the warmth in his chest from earlier, and makes the mistake of letting himself believe that maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

Then he gets to the spot where he and Souji usually wait for one another.

He’s already slowing to a stop as he approaches, hands reaching up out of habit to tug the headphones away from his ears and eyes automatically scanning the area for a head of familiar silver hair. It doesn’t register at first what he’s doing – every action born from muscle memory after weeks and months of the same damn thing; it’s only as he’s pulling his phone out of his pocket to check the time that he _remembers._

He remembers that Souji still hasn’t texted him back after vanishing and scaring Yosuke half to death. He remembers that Souji wasn’t in school yesterday, that Naoto had acted as his mouthpiece and spouted some story about Souji being sick that just didn’t add up no matter how much Yosuke tried to work it out. He remembers the worry, the fear, the helplessness of not being able to do anything to help or even _locate_ his best friend, followed by the hurt and frustration and the bitter, niggling anxiety in the back of his skull over the course of the past couple of days.

He remembers that he’d been upset with Souji for not trusting him enough to tell him what was wrong. He’d felt a little betrayed, angry even, though he hadn’t exactly wanted to acknowledge either emotion because he didn’t want to think about what it said about him. He remembers feeling guilty because of it, anxious and paranoid that he was overreacting but also too sure that Souji had been acting out of character to take any kind of self-depreciating comfort in the thought. He feels his gut turn.

What if Souji wasn’t in school again today? What if Naoto had been wrong or only placating them when they’d said Souji would probably be back? What if something really _was_ super wrong, and his partner had just decided to shut him out without giving Yosuke a chance to help? Or what if Souji had just decided he didn’t want to deal with anyone anymore – didn’t want to deal with _him._

Yosuke shakes his head, careful not to accidentally throw himself off-balance and step into the street. He can’t let himself think like that; it’s unfair to Souji and to Naoto and, well, probably just about everybody on the team to think that Souji suddenly just hates someone (him) or is leaving them all in the dark on purpose, picking out favorites because he doesn’t trust. That’s not who Souji _is,_ it never _has_ been in all the time that Yosuke has known him. Even with the anxiety, Yosuke at least is confident that his partner isn’t secretly a horrible, manipulative person at heart. After all, Souji has seen the worst parts of all of them and never so much as flinched.

So no, if Souji isn’t at school again today then that means something really _is_ wrong, and shame on Yosuke for making it all about himself and his insecurities.

Mood soured and self-dislike rearing its ugly head once more, Yosuke stuffs his phone back into his pocket and tugs the headphones up to try and drown out the darkening thoughts. But it doesn’t _work._ He cranks the volume up, almost loud enough to hurt his ears, but no matter how loud he makes it there is still the tiny, mocking voice at the base of his skull that whispers just above the music and gnaws incessantly at his nerves.

 _You’re a terrible partner,_ it whispers. _Look at you, always trying to play the victim. You can’t even be worried about your **best friend** without turning it into a pity party, can you?_

He turns the music up higher, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and hunching inward as if he can somehow make himself small enough to hide from his own mind.

_You’re just going to ruin everything like you always do. You push and you whine until nobody can stand you anymore. That’s why Souji isn’t speaking to you._

Shaky, anxious energy tingles its way down Yosuke’s legs, settles in his bones like a live current through a power line.

_Maybe it’ll be a good thing if he **doesn’t** show up to school – you really want him to see your shitty self-absorption? Cuz he will. You know he will; it’s **Souji** , nothing gets past him. He’ll take one look at you and he’ll **know.**_

Yosuke lurches forward like he’s been shoved, cramming his hands into his pockets and hurrying away from the meet-up spot without even a final glance around to see if his partner is nearby. A part of him hopes that Souji _isn’t_ , that he’s already gone on ahead without waiting for Yosuke, or that he’s still somewhere far off behind, not yet close to where the pair of them usually meet.

He strides off in the direction of the high school as quickly as he can without actually breaking into a sprint and keeps his head bowed as if he can out-pace the anxiety and leave the voice behind.

 

 

It’s almost a relief when Yosuke walks into the classroom and sees the desk in front of his own still as empty as his inbox.

He slides in through the door much earlier than he’d expected – a testament to just how fast he’d been power-walking the entire second half of his trek. It isn’t _too_ early, a good two thirds of his classmates seem to be already in the room, but it’s early enough that he’s almost thrown off by how much he _doesn’t_ have to scramble to his seat to beat the bell.

Chie and Yukiko greet him as he sits, Yukiko with a polite nod and quiet, “Good morning, Yosuke-kun,” and Chie with a quip about him not being late for once. He pretends to feel more indignant than he really is and shoots her a half-hearted retort. To Yukiko, he raises a hand in a lackluster wave and mumbles out something that hopefully passes as cheery. If the girls glance at one another after he turns to sling his bag off his shoulder then he pays it no mind. He can play it off as being tired if either of them ask.

They don’t. The odd looks last for a few moments more before the girls return to their previous discussion, seemingly from where they left off. Yosuke busies himself with unpacking his school bag and largely tunes them out.

More students file in. The clock above the door continues to tick, minute hand sluggishly moving ever closer to the start of class. Souji doesn’t show. The door opens and closes several more times and a handful of people enter while a few more leave – likely visiting their friends from another classroom. Souji still doesn’t show. Eventually, the students milling around the edges of the room start to find their seats and the noise in the hallway begins to die down a little as surrounding classes do the same. Souji _still_ doesn’t show. Chie says more words to Yosuke and he responds when prompted, but he’s too busy pretending not to watch the door to ever fully join in on the conversation. And Souji. Doesn’t. Show.

A strange mix of relief and dread starts to form in Yosuke’s gut. There isn’t much time left before the teacher is due to arrive, and while the sarcastic, scornful voice that followed him from the meet-up point has thankfully quieted down now that Yosuke has the classroom as a distraction, the tempest of negativity still remains. Guilty as he feels for admitting it, he’s glad that Souji isn’t currently here; Yosuke is still a mess of conflicting emotions from the past couple of days – let alone this morning – and he has no idea how he’d handle actually seeing his partner in person. On the other hand, as the minutes eek by and it looks increasingly likely that no other students will be coming in, Yosuke’s concern for his best friend’s wellbeing swells like a rising tide, threatening to spill over and send him sinking once again. Guilt for his relief wars with the apprehension in his heart, leaving him balanced on he edge of something he cannot see the bottom of.

It’s like being lost without even a single star to guide him home.

He’s so busy focusing on his own inner turmoil that Yosuke almost misses the sound of the door opening, almost misses the quiet, moon-colored figure that slips into the room like a spectre until they’re silently easing into the chair directly in front of him. Yosuke startles as the figure turns in their seat to offer a nod to Chie and Yukiko, then back around to give him one as well.

_Souji._

Souji is back in school today.

And he looks like absolute _hell._

It’s the little things about him, the chips and cracks that Yosuke can see all over his partner’s finely-crafted mask of normalcy. There is a careful tension in the way he holds himself, a tightness to the line of his shoulders that speaks of carefully controlled anxiety, of exhaustion hidden down deep below the surface. Yosuke knows, he can see this and recognize it because now he knows what to look for. Up close he can see the remnants of dark circles below Souji’s eyes, faint and faded, just a hint of purple below tissue paper skin. It’s the same thing Yosuke sees on himself in the mirror after a too-long shift at work for the second day in a row.

He scans Souji’s features as the other boy smiles at the three of them. The tit of Souji’s lips is all wrong; the smile is pulled too far out along the corners and not upward like it should be if it were really real. It doesn’t reach his eyes, either, and seems to tremble the longer it stays on. His skin also looks ashen around the corners – a subtle sign of sleep deprivation that Yosuke knows all too well.

(He can’t remember ever noticing his partner looking this way before. He’s ashamed to admit that he doesn’t know if that’s because Souji’s just never looked this bad or if Yosuke’s just never _looked.)_

Yosuke thinks of all the times he’s been running on empty and feeling like he wants to drop, but can’t because there’s still several hours left of his shift and he has to pretend he’s perfectly fine. It’s always then that the stern, gossipy, angry old women decide to come up to him, to crowd him into a corner and make demands he cannot fulfill or intimidate him just because they think they can. Yosuke knows what it feels like to have to hold his Customer Service smile in place and keep a tight reign on his positive façade – just so they don’t pick up on his exhaustion and desperation to just go _home_ and exploit the weakness as if it were blood in the water.

 _That’s_ what Souji looks like to him.

As horrible as it is, Yosuke has the pageant to thank for being able to notice the way his best friend is miles away from okay. Granted, he looks a fuck ton better than he did the day he went sprinting past Yosuke in the hallway, eyes wild and panicked. But that’s exactly _why_ Yosuke can see what he sees now; because now that he’s caught of glimpse of what Souji looks like when his usual stoicism and quiet solidity are fractured, Yosuke doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to _not_ notice it again.

Souji turns slightly at the waist to aim his surface-level smile in Yosuke’s direction, having just finished showing it to Yukiko and Chie. Yosuke catches the way Souji’s eyes seem to linger on him – just for a second – and Yosuke tries to meet them, hold them, in the hopes of finding some kind of genuine emotion hidden inside, but Souji flicks his gaze down just slightly, before turning away and facing the front of the room.

The teacher walks in a moment later and any chance of getting Souji’s attention again is lost for the rest of the morning.

 

\---

           

The rest of the day is a complete and total disaster.

Yosuke barely gets a chance to talk to Souji during lunch, and for the little bit he _does,_ Souji essentially says the exact same thing that Naoto had said the day before. Under normal circumstances this might not have raised any flags in Yosuke’s head, but the way that Souji “explains” the events of the last couple of days seems more like he’s building off of something rather than recounting it. Once again there’s an odd disconnect with the timeline.

But Yosuke doesn’t know how to call him on it. He keeps his eyes trained on his best friend’s face, scrutinizing Souji’s expression as if he can pick out the missing information from the way Souji doesn’t quite meet anyone’s eyes. There is a strange fluttering in his stomach as he watches – one that gets stronger every time he notices yet another minute detail that speaks of just how _not-right_ his partner is below the surface.

It isn’t even that Souji looks like he’s been horribly sick, which, again, Yosuke doesn’t wish for but would at least lend credit to the story that both Naoto and Souji have given. He _does_ look very much like he hasn’t slept properly, so that part at least is obviously true, but to say that physical illness is the reason for everything is just… it doesn’t _fit._ No, instead there is a sort of quiet jitteriness to Souji’s entire being; one that screams of trepidation, like Souji is afraid of something as he speaks. He’s also keeping things purposefully vague– not so much that it’s obvious, but Yosuke has acted as Souji’s second for far too long now not to be able to spot the discrepancies in his partner’s patterns. He’s spent months being hyper-tuned to Souji as their commander; he’s a little miffed at himself for never thinking to use that same skill outside the TV until now.

Yukiko is the one that brings up how sudden Souji’s disappearance had been. Souji’s poker face twitches _just barely_ , but it’s enough that Yosuke, close as he is, can spot the split-second ripple on the mirror-smooth expression Souji’s holding in place. Chie picks up the thread that Yukiko began and carries it with a nod of agreement, throwing in a statement of her own.

Yosuke grabs at the end of the conversation thread, seizing his chance and hastening to remind the other boy of how he’d witnessed him tearing down the hallway before Souji can even so much as open his mouth to respond. He purses his lips and stares at Souji as if he can make his friend meet his eyes by sheer force of will. “Seriously, bro,” he adds, silently praying he can call his partner out and have it _work._ “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you move that fast.”

Souji flicks his focus over, more like an unconscious tic than anything deliberate, and for the tiniest of moments his gaze connects with Yosuke’s before Souji’s cloud-grey eyes flick away again and back to the space just behind Yosuke’s right shoulder. It’s faster than a well-aimed Zio, but not quite fast enough for Yosuke to completely miss the flash of rabbit-like fear that’s hiding just behind Souji’s manufactured expression. The sight of it twists in Yosuke’s chest like a sewing bobbin wound nearly tight enough to snap.

 _Look at me,_ he thinks, desperate with rekindled anger and hurt. _Talk to me, damnit, I was worried about you!_

But he doesn’t say it out loud. He _can’t,_ because he doesn’t know _how_ – doesn’t know how to call his friend out for giving half-truths at best, doesn’t know how to ask Souji outright what’s going on. He’s terrified, both of making a nuisance of himself like he did with Saki-senpai and also of Souji pulling away from him and never telling him why. If Souji needs him, then Yosuke wants to help. But that means, too, that Souji needs to _need_ him.

Because which is worse: being an annoyance or simply not being needed?

He quickly stomps that question down and grits his teeth against it.

Something desperate and frustrated claws its way up Yosuke’s throat in retaliation, and before Yosuke can stop himself he’s biting back an accusation, masking it at the last moment by making a joke at Kanji’s expense. It scalds him as he says it, like a swallow of too-hot water, but say it he does. He doesn’t even know why, it just… _comes out_ ; like a knee-jerk reaction to the feeling of being attacked, even if it’s by his own mind and not by any external force.

Souji’s expression turns to stone.

From that point on the discussion steadily decays. Chie smacks at Yosuke and Souji takes the chance to quickly throw up a wall. He deflects, changing his expression as if he’s swapping a Persona in battle, apologizing and smiling his fake, shaky smile and decidedly _not_ giving any straight answers. The conversation winds around like a river until the details of the beauty pageant make their way to the front, where Yosuke, in his embarrassment and blind mess of confusing emotions, manages to trip headlong into his own stupidity.

Chie smacks at him again while Yukiko hisses something low and threatening that he probably deserves, and by the time Yosuke is able to fend them off, Souji has already made his escape. Yosuke slumps back into his seat, defeated and upset. There’s no point in going after his partner, he knows, because Souji has already proven his ability to vanish without a trace.

With his scalp still stinging from Chie’s knuckles, Yosuke sinks lower in his chair and folds his arms tightly over his chest as he sulks, teeth grinding as he attempts to tune out the girls’ indignation. He allows the acrid disappointment and dejection to fester – he’s sick of trying to reel it back in at this point, considering he’s still running on only a couple of hours of sleep. Chie and Yukiko finally turn away from him and Yosuke stares at the blackboard without seeing it until his vision starts to blur.

 

 

Souji does eventually come back, of course, once lunch ends, but by then Yosuke is too embittered to care. He sits behind his partner (though he’s questioning if it can really be called an equal partnership right about now) and stares at the back of Souji’s head like it’s personally done him wrong. It’s how he feels at the moment, anyway.

Under usual circumstances, Yosuke would be a ball of erratic energy – finding ways to poke and prod at Souji to get his attention. Because Yosuke is needy, he _knows_ he’s needy, and Souji is the best friend he’s ever had, so it just makes sense that Yosuke would want his attention all the time. He doesn’t _like_ how needy he is (it’s cost him friendships before), but he’s stopped trying to deny or fight it. He’s seen first hand what the outcome of _that_ can be.

But today he doesn’t do any of that. He can’t even bring himself to slip his friend a note, just to pass the time; he’s still too upset. It’s probably just paranoia, the product of anxiety and too many bad experiences with people throwing him away, and he’s aware that his reaction is most likely childish. Pettiness runs in his nature, though, when he’s hurt, and it’s just one more thing that Yosuke has come to terms with but cannot disengage from entirely. Something else he doesn’t like about himself – surprise, surprise.

Classes start and classes end and Yosuke’s mind wanders into dark places. He would try and nap, maybe, since he’s more worn out than he thinks he’s ever been outside from fighting in the TV world. However, though his body protests the lack of sleep, his mind keeps circling. So Yosuke sits and thinks, switching between being irritated with Souji for shutting him out – even if his partner really _is_ just recovering from a messed-up stomach – to being hurt all over again to blaming _himself_. What did he do so wrong that Souji ignored him for two days straight? Does Souji just not trust him anymore? Did he ever?

And _oh,_ that last one _stings._

Yosuke’s emotions swing back around to frustration then; if Yosuke really did screw up somewhere, then how the hell is he supposed to know what _not_ to do if Souji won’t _talk to him?_ If Souji doesn’t trust him, if Souji never did, then what the actual fuck? Just… _what the fuck?!_ No matter what way Yosuke turns this situation over in his mind he can’t seem to untangle any of it. He doesn’t know if he should apologize for something or if he should be expecting another apology from _Souji._ By the time there’s only half an hour left of school Yosuke is damn near ready to grab his partner by the shoulders and _shake him,_ or corner Souji so that he can’t run away again, pin him to a wall and press in close until Souji’s has nowhere to focus his eyes except for him.

He lets himself picture it, plays the imaginary confrontation out like a movie in his head. He could grab Souji as he’s getting ready to leave and drag his partner back into the classroom after all the other students file out. Or better yet, he could trap Souji in an empty bathroom stall, maybe, could catch him as he’s passing by and push the other boy backwards so that Souji can’t duck around him to escape. Yosuke could slam his hands against the wall on either side of Souji’s waist, keep him there between his arms, press a knee between his partner’s legs, lean in to drag his teeth along the sensitive skin of Souji’s throat—

**_FUCK._ **

Yosuke startles so badly that he nearly jerks back in his seat. He just barely avoids bashing his ankle into the leg of Souji’s chair on accident, yanking his foot to the side last second and smacking his shin on his own desk instead as images from last night come roaring back into his head like a tsunami. Souji pinned beneath him. Souji with his breath gasping and his cheeks flushed red. Souji staring up at Yosuke with foggy, half-lidded eyes.

Yosuke feels the awful telltale rush of warmth as the blood in his body tries to migrate _down._

 _You jerked off to the thought of your best friend last night in the shower,_ sing-songs the gnashing, sarcastic voice from the depths of his mind, mocking him as he tries to subtly squeeze his thighs together to discourage his traitorous dick. He grits his teeth in desperation, guilt and fear and self-disgust roiling low in his stomach, and silently prays for class to somehow end early.

Souji twitches in front of him, no doubt having heard the muffled _‘thud’_ from where Yosuke had bashed his leg _,_ and shifts like he’s going to turn over his shoulder to glance back Yosuke’s way.

A bubbling wave of panic rises up inside Yosuke’s chest, sending his already-fluttering heart into overdrive. The voice inside his head hisses, whispering anxious, frantic things like, _he knows what you did, he knows what you just thought, he **knows!**_ all layered over top of one another like ripples in the rain. Yosuke feels his blood freeze, all the heat in his body not currently in his lap now rushing to his face in sheer mortification and dread.

_Don’t look at me, please don’t look at me!_

He isn’t sure if he’s more afraid of the other boy seeing right through him or of his own reaction at the sight of Souji’s face; he doesn’t trust his mind right now not to overlay the Souji from last night’s dream across the one in front of him. In the back of his head he shamefully wonders if it’s possible to be terrified and turned on at the same time. He squeezes his thighs tighter together and tries to circumvent his body’s attempts to find out.

As if some divine entity has heard him, the teacher turns around from writing on the chalkboard right as Souji is twisting his spine to look back in Yosuke’s direction, effectively halting Souji’s movement and leaving him to hurriedly realign himself facing forward. Yosuke lets out a quiet sigh of relief and slumps down in his chair once more. He ignores the sidelong glance that Chie sends his way and concentrates on slowing his heartbeat to a more reasonable level, hoping the flow of blood redirects itself as the steady pounding of his pulse sluggishly decelerates.

_That was fucking **close.**_

Yosuke’s jaw hurts from how he’s been clenching it by the time the warmth finally returns to his fingers. They shake with unspent adrenaline as he waits for the teacher to turn back around, discreetly grabbing his things and shoving them into his bag the moment her gaze is turned. As soon as the final bell sounds, right as Souji is twisting around again and offering him that bright, tired smile, Yosuke is on his feet and swinging his bag over his shoulder. He blurts out a quick goodbye and an “I’m glad you’re better, dude!” before dashing out the door like he’s running several years behind schedule, pants still feeling just barely too tight for the speed with which he walks.

He tells himself he’s just imagining the way the faint light in Souji’s face seems to dim as Yosuke all but jogs out into the safety of the hall.

 

\---

 

Yosuke’s shift that night at Junes is only made survivable because of Teddie.

The living mascot is still riding the emotional high from that morning and takes happy advantage of every moment that their paths seem to cross while Yosuke works the grocery department and Teddie the one just beyond. Every free moment he has, he’s gluing himself to Yosuke’s side, which Yosuke would be lying if he said he wasn’t secretly happy about. As annoying as his new little brother can be, it’s nice to feel needed, _wanted,_ especially now, and Yosuke is thankful for the (very successful) distraction Teddie’s ravenous desire for his attention provides. They wind up getting a few odd looks here and there but his dad never comes by to see what the ruckus is about, so for once, Yosuke is able to force himself not to notice the hardened gazes thrown his way.            

The problem is, Teddie can’t be around him the entire time he’s there – even with the bear sneaking over to the canned goods aisle every chance he gets. After all, Teddie doesn’t go to school and thus has been on shift for a lot longer than Yosuke has. Stall as he might, eventually the kid is required (and deserves) to go on his dinner break, leaving Yosuke all alone with his thoughts. Even worse, it’s the part of the night that has a short lull in activity – the hour or so in between when people get off work and when they actually go out to start shopping for ingredients for dinner – so there aren’t even really any customers to deal with to keep Yosuke’s mind from edging off into dangerously dark territory. It makes him anxious all over again; even a testy old housewife or disgruntled off-duty cop would be preferable to being left alone.            

Because it’s when Yosuke is alone that the voice returns to his mind and whispers seeds of doubt and condescension into his ears.

 _Dirty,_ it sneers while he’s rearranging a stack of cans from this week’s “featured brand.”

 _Disgusting,_ it hisses and nearly makes him drop an entire armload onto his own foot.

 _Pervert,_ it mocks as he gives up and shoves everything he’d been holding onto the first shelf he can find.

Every time it speaks it gets harsher, more insistent, angrier, until it becomes nigh on impossible to focus on anything else. It’s everything he’s ever been afraid of himself becoming – other than the needy, clingy mess he already acknowledges he is – and it rattles around in his skull, getting louder and louder as the minutes tick by with nothing to occupy his thoughts beyond his own quagmire of self depreciation. He can feel it weighing heavily across his shoulders like a blanket made of stones, settling into his stomach and solidifying as if he’d swallowed cement.

It starts off quietly, too, almost so much that he doesn’t spot it at first, not until it’s too late to head it off. The guilt trickles in like an infection, like a seeping sickness, and by the time Yosuke has noticed its presence it’s brought along the doubt, the fear, the feeling of something grimy stuck to Yosuke’s skin like a thick layer of mud. It colors his vision, tugs at his Customer Service smile until it’s only held in place by sheer muscle memory, even as Yosuke’s insides start to burn and it nearly topples him over with the force of its reveal. He tries to push it aside, tries to ignore it or make it go away; it hangs on with poisoned claws and digs them deeper every time he thinks he’s managed to start to pull them out.

 _Remember what you did?_ the voice cackles over and over again. _Remember how you enjoyed it?_

And in the moments of silence when no one is nearby to keep him out of his own head, Yosuke _does._

He thinks about all the sensations the dream had brought along with it, the ones that had stayed with him in the shower long after he’d woken up. He thinks about how _good_ they had been, how he’d come to with the feel of Souji’s hair between his fingers, Souji’s lips against his own – not just the sex but the little things surrounding it as well. He thinks and thinks and _thinks_ and then thinks _again_ about how he’d been in class earlier that very day and wanted nothing more than to lean forward and press his face against the back of his partner’s shoulder.

He’d wanted to kiss Souji.

Yosuke ducks around the side of an aisle and leans against it for support as he lets the careening train of through go crashing through his head. The track behind it blazes bright and turns to ash.

_GOD._

Yosuke runs his hands down his face.

He’d had a sex dream about his best friend. He’d _orgasmed_ to the thought of his best friend. And not only that, but he’d actively been _unable_ to think about anything else – even thinking of _nothing_ hadn’t helped.

He feels his breathing start to quicken, catching in his chest at the end of each jerky inhale. Is he broken? Is there something horribly wrong with him that he can’t even get off to the thought of girls anymore? Is he just so irreparably desperate for Souji’s attention that he’d somehow cracked himself the moment his partner had stopped talking to him for a few days?

And even _besides_ _the fact_ that it was _Souji_ that Yosuke had been picturing, that it was his closest companion and a _guy,_ there is still another, almost more pressing concern that Yosuke finds himself circling around to now that the initial disgust and self-loathing has made itself apparent.

What does any of that say about him personally? What if it was just some weird fixation with the one person he’s ever felt this close to? Some need to be relevant? Is it even actually _Souji_ that Yosuke’s brain has apparently latched onto now, or is it simply the ever-present yearning for someone, anyone to want him around that had placed his partner’s face, his voice, his _body_ over top Yosuke’s pathetic need for validation? Saki-senpai’s echoing, shadowy voice had described Yosuke as a stray puppy once, months ago in the dark and twisted nether-world version of the Konishi family liquor store. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he knows she was probably right.

He does, after all, have a bit of an unfortunate track record with letting people use him.

Souji is kind to him. Souji is _always there_ for him, always makes _time_ for him; is it too far a stretch to think that maybe Yosuke is addicted to being treated like an actual person? That everything that’s happened in the last 24 hours is the product of Yosuke simply enjoying the attention and getting freaked when it’s suddenly taken away for even a moment? Maybe Yosuke really is like a whining dog, attaching himself to the first person to give him any sort of positive attention and getting under their feet, regardless of who the person is.

Maybe it’s Yosuke that now thinks of _Souji_ as something to use, like everyone in the city used to do to _him._

(And _oh god,_ does he have to lean the rest of his weights against the endcap to keep himself standing when that particular thought crops up and knocks the wind clean out of his lungs. He thinks for a moment that he might even be physically sick.)

From that point forward, the rest of the night is left in shambles. Teddie’s break stretches on impractically long and Yosuke’s mind chews away at itself, sending him into an abyss of negativity while he turns everything over in his head until his head feels dizzy and his stomach feels nauseous.

_Pathetic._

_You’re so pathetic._

_You can’t even pick apart what you’re repressing so that you can **stop** repressing it. What the fuck is wrong with you?_

(He doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t have _any_ answers.)

_You’re gonna wind up friendless again. You’re gonna scare him away and he’s going to hate you forever. After everything you’ve said about Kanji, now you’ve gone and done the same fucking thing you’re so goddamn worried some other guy is gonna try and do to **you.**_

_You hypocrite **.**_

_You sicko._

**_You dirty fucking homo._ **

Yosuke has to run to take a ten-minute break of his own, locking himself in the storeroom with wet-hot blurring vision until the bile in his throat stops burning at the backs of his teeth.

 

 

He doesn’t sleep much again that night either. He’s too afraid of the dreams returning to properly rest, but too emotionally wrung out and exhausted to do anything other than lay there and stare up at the ceiling until his alarm goes off for school.

 

 

Yosuke avoids Souji completely after that.

Wednesday is almost worse than Tuesday had been, because now that Yosuke knows Souji is back at school he has to actively take measures to evade him. He makes it a point not to go anywhere near the spot along the road where he and Souji would normally catch up to one another and walk the rest of the way. He can’t risk it, can’t give the voice in his head a new chance to spew its venom into his brain cells. So instead, he cranks up his music until his ears are ringing and wills his legs to move faster, ducking into a side street and taking an alternate path to school. Just in case the focus of his mental torment is anywhere nearby.

Because even as bad as the voice is, Yosuke just… He can’t face Souji.

It isn’t that he doesn’t want to see him (he really does, he’d _missed_ his partner while Souji had been absent and unresponsive), but every time he thinks of his friend the images in his mind come filtering back in, tinting his thoughts with increasingly vivid scenarios. It’s almost like a floodgate has been opened, one that Yosuke not only doesn’t know how to close but also didn’t even know was _there_ until it had all come crashing down. It’s almost unbearable.

So no. He can’t face Souji. Not yet. Not right now.

Not until he’s pieced himself back together and there’s nothing left for Souji to _know_ and _hate him_ for.

Yosuke hangs back at the school gates when he reaches them, picking his way carefully around the side of the front walkway to minimize his visibility just in case Souji is still inside by the shoe lockers. Only once he’s certain enough time has passed does Yosuke actually enter the building. He switches out his shoes as fast as he can and darts to the very end of the hall to the far staircase – the one he knows Souji is less likely to use while heading up for class – where he then loiters in the darkened corner of the stairwell, peeking around the side of the hall like he’s back on the stakeout with Chie all those months ago. He stays there, hiding, not even bothering to acknowledge the people around him as they pass him by, until he finally catches sight of that signature ethereal silver disappearing into the classroom. The crowd surges, then thins, then becomes a trickle, and all the while Yosuke remains in the safety of the hallway, only leaving his place in the stairwell when the final bell is about to sound and he has absolutely no other choice.

He slips into the classroom from the door in the back and tries to move as stealthily as he can to avoid alerting the boy in the desk in front of his own to his presence. He sits, shoots Yukiko and Chie a robotic nod in greeting, and for the rest of the time before the lunch break, he stares longingly at the back of Souji’s head and avidly pretends he doesn’t see the other boy glancing at him whenever the teacher isn’t looking directly their way.

He bolts for the bathroom the moment the lunch bell rings.

He doesn’t have a shift that night but he says he does anyway. He lies straight to Souji’s face (well, not _straight_ to his face, Yosuke babbles it out as he’s shoving his notebook into his bag and blatantly avoiding looking at his best friend’s crumbling expression,) before heading out the door so fast he nearly stumbles. He can hear a couple of short, indignant noises from behind him – likely Chie – but he doesn’t so much as look.

He goes home and locks himself in his room, piling up under every cover he owns and cranking the volume on his headphones up as high as it will go.

He falls asleep anyway.

He dreams again – though nowhere as graphically as before. It’s muted somehow, less like he’s dreaming and more like his brain is simply cycling through all the thoughts Yosuke has been unable to drive away for the past couple of days. He still wakes up hard, gasping, frantic in his embarrassment and his confusion, kicking off the sheets and leaning back against the headboard until his heart stops trying to burst out through his chest. He’s still shaky, still guilty, still fucked up over how much he _wishes_ it actually _had_ been more graphic.

He doesn’t dare go down the mental rabbit hole of trying to suss out what all of that actually says about him.

There is a faint buzz from the nightstand beside him and he forces himself to move, to tug the headphones from his ears – the player long since drained of battery after running for several continuous hours – and shove them out of his way along the mattress. He rolls over to make a grab for where his phone sits blinking at him, his eyes still adjusting to the dim light in the room around him. (It takes him a good minute to realize that the sun has gone down outside his window, leaving the room only just barely lit with the fading blue-and-golden glow on the horizon.)

Yosuke nearly drops the phone twice before he finally manages to get a decent grip on it, his fingers still trembling from the adrenaline rush he’d suffered upon waking. With his body not obeying him and his mind still halfway lost in fleeting visions of his best friend’s skin, Yosuke has to stare at the device in his hand for several long seconds before he can make out the words scrolling across the screen.

_8 missed messages._

All from Chie.

 

 **Meat-Fu:** Hey you jerk u didn’t even say goodbye! Rude!

 **Meat-Fu:** What gives anyway? Thought u’d b all over Souji-kun by now.

 **Meat-Fu:** Is something going on? Did u 2 fight?

 **Meat-Fu:** Just went by Junes & guess what? Teddie said u don’t work 2night.

 **Meat-Fu:** U wanna explain that 1? Y’d u lie?

 **Meat-Fu:** Yosuke? U better read these or I’ll kick ur ass.

 **Meat-Fu:** U’ve been acting rlly weird. R u ok?

 

Yosuke groans and covers his eyes with his forearm. He doesn’t have the mental capacity to deal with this just yet. Quickly tapping at the keyboard, he types out a short, noncommittal deflection in the hopes of heading off any more incoming headache she might send his way. Chie is persistent, he knows, and if he doesn’t give her at least _some_ kind of response then she might just come and kick down his front door. He has no desire to explain _that_ to his parents.

 

 **Yosuke:** lol geez chie take it ez

 **Yosuke:** I goofed n got the days wrong thats all

 

He doesn’t get an immediate reply (for which he is _very_ grateful), but the anxiety starts to creep in low in his lungs anyway. There is still adrenaline in his blood from the… _everything_ , so the jittery, unsteady buzzing under his skin is still somewhat present even now. It adds on to the newer trickle of dread and brings it out just a little stronger.

He doesn’t really like that he’s just lied to Chie again, especially when she’d seemed at least somewhat genuinely worried (with Chie it’s hard to tell), but he doesn’t know what to _say._ Should he tell her he’d made up the work excuse so that he could bail as quick as possible and avoid being around his partner, whom he’s been having gay dreams about?

Hell. Fucking. _No._

So a lie it is. A lie on top of a lie on top of everything else. Because why not. Yosuke makes a helpless noise in the back of his throat and flips his phone shut so he doesn’t have to look at his own texts anymore.

He’s just about to stuff his phone under the pillow and go back to hating his life in the dark when he spots the little red envelope still starting at him from the phone screen.

_1 missed message._

Confused, he goes back to Chie’s string of texts. No, he’s pretty sure he read all these, and it doesn’t look like Chie has responded yet. But then he counts them and realizes that out of the eight messages the notification said before, Chie’s only sent him seven. His anxiety pulses again.

Throat suddenly tight, Yosuke hits the button and goes back to the inbox.

_Prtnr – 1_

Shit.

It’s like the universe is just straight up out to get him, because Yosuke can’t stop the way his stomach flips (not even _remotely_ unpleasantly) upon seeing his best friend’s name in the inbox for the first time in _days._ His hands start to shake all over again and now he can’t even tell if it’s from an unfamiliar form of fear or if it’s the last piece of his mind still wrapped up in the string of images that had plagued him while he stress-napped.

 _Get a damn grip,_ he scolds himself, though even in his head the words do nothing to help. _It’s just a text from Souji. Isn’t that what you’ve been wanting?_

Yes. But also no. Not right now. Not when Yosuke is in no fit state to handle interaction – even through something as impersonal as texting.

(And there are also tinier, thinner voices in his ears that murmur tinier, thinner vices just behind his own thoughts and war with each other around and around. Things like how he’d been so hurt and worried, shouldn’t he just go ahead and check it and be glad Souji’s talking to him again? But also things like how he should just leave it unread like Souji had done to him for several days.)

In the end, Yosuke gives in and opens the message, instantly drowning in the mix of glee and guilt and longing that comes flooding in as he reads the single, sweet message.

 

 **Prtnr:** I didn’t get to say it after class but I hope your shift goes well. :)

 

Heat rises to Yosuke’s face, bright and sharp. He’s blushing, he can’t even deny that he is, because it’s so innocuous but also just so _Souji,_ and while it’s no different than ninety percent of the texts his partner has sent over the course of their friendship, it’s still so… so…

Yosuke feels the flush trailing down his neck to seep under his shirt and dust across his collarbones. He has to take a second to close his eyes and rest his phone against his forehead like a kid with a crush, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards in an involuntary smile. This is dumb; this is so, so dumb, why can’t he just keep his own emotions in check for five minutes? But even as mad as he’s been at Souji, even as hurt and upset as his friend has made him feel over the last couple of days – intentional or not – Yosuke can’t suppress the little spark of happiness that Souji’s well-wish brings.

_So, **so** dumb._

But, because the world outside the TV is the one that _isn’t_ shaped by thought alone, the pleasant, carbonated tingle of happiness soon runs out of fizz and Yosuke is left with the chilly spread of his earlier apprehension. He almost forgot that he’s still a mess.

With a sigh and a silent plea for his own adrenaline not to fuck him over, Yosuke rereads the message and wracks his brain for a response. _Should_ he even respond at this point? What if Chie’s already told Souji that Yosuke wasn’t at Junes? What if Souji _knew_ when he sent the text, and sent it _because_ he knew and why trying to catch Yosuke in a lie?

He discards that thought immediately; as crap as Yosuke has been feeling over his partner going MIA for a while, he refuses to believe that Souji is capable of passive aggression. He’s too much of a leader, too blunt of a person; Souji might be the very definition of tactful most of the time, but he’s still someone that says what he means rather than twisting things. Passive aggression is something Yosuke has noticed Souji can’t seem to stand – regardless of his endless patience – so personal bias aside, Yosuke can’t bring himself to think that Souji would ever apply a tactic he’s so uncomfortable with from other people.

 _(Then again,_ that tinier, thinner voice murmurs, _he’s been so out-of-character lately that for all you know… )_

Yosuke grits his teeth so hard his gums start to sting, using the dull pain to ground himself outside his head before that particular train of thought can gain any sort of traction. He doesn’t have the strength to deal with the mental whiplash anymore.

Before he can go back to over thinking, Yosuke stabs his thumb at the keyboard on his phone and types the quickest, most generically vague response he can possibly think of that has even a semblance of safety – just in case he’s wrong.

 

 **Yosuke:** k

 

He hates it the moment he sends it but it’s already done and he has no idea of what he can add to it to keep from digging deeper into the trench he thinks he might have already started for himself. There is a very noticeable part of him that is still fluttery, still warm and a little happy from earlier, but he doesn’t know what to make of it. He would tie it to relief at Souji finally texting him, but that doesn’t seem right. He could also attribute it to the aftermath of dreaming, but it’s a different feeling. He’s happy Souji is thinking of him again (not going down that possible hole of doubt and negativity,) but also terrified of what his reaction might _mean_. Because on its own if would be a perfectly normal thing – his friend is talking to him after scaring him shitless by ghosting him for a few days – but combined with all the more _questionable_ things his brain has been doing, Yosuke doesn’t think he can brush any part of this off as “normal” anymore.

He can’t separate his usual feelings from the ones he’s been experiencing the past few days; how can he when he can’t even _untangle_ them to begin with? And the scariest part? If they’re really, _actually new,_ then what brought them on? And if they _aren’t_ new at all, well…

How the fuck is he supposed to react to _that_ implication?

Stomach turning, Yosuke pulls Chie’s string of texts back up so he can stop staring at Souji’s polarizing message. (How can something so fucking _simple_ be so goddamn _complicated?!)_

 _He’s just my friend,_ he tells himself as he taps the button to light up the keyboard once again.

_Nothing else. I was worried and my head played a shitty prank on me._

He types up a dirty, awful joke – something reminiscent of the stuff he used to pull back when he and Chie had first started actually talking, something about thick thighs and short skirts, something he might send while trying to flirt while concussed – and hits send before his conscience can convince him that what he’s doing is wrong.

_I’m not **gay.**_

****

\---

 

When Chie responds a little while later, offended and rightfully pissed, Yosuke lets himself go on autopilot so that he doesn’t have to think about what he’s saying. His fingers type out something hollow and placating without any sort of real apology and Chie sends him back a promise of physical harm. He doesn’t try and argue.

He’s just in the process of beginning to drag himself up out of bed afterwards when his phone buzzes again. He picks it up and flips it open without thinking, stupidly assuming it’s Chie sending him another not-so-subtle threat. It isn’t. Instead there is another message from Souji, asking Yosuke how he was doing and if his shift had gone okay.

Yosuke stares down at his phone until the screen goes dark again, tendrils of anxiety creeping back in to wrap around the base of his lungs. He feels so stupid right now; his lie sits heavy on his chest and he’s acutely aware that he has to decide what story he wants to stick to. On the one hand, he could tell Souji what he’d told Chie, that he’d messed up the dates and forgot he didn’t have a shift after all. On the other hand, he wonders if he hasn’t already shot himself in that particular foot with his god-awful, lackluster response from before. It wasn’t as if he’d really said much of anything with his single-lettered reply.

He doesn’t know what to do. Somehow, what with his brain’s self-cannibalizing, it hadn’t really crossed Yosuke’s mind that Souji might actually respond now that he was apparently texting people again. Granted, the radio silence from the beginning of the week hadn’t built any sort of confidence – just the opposite – but Yosuke still can’t help but feel stupid for not even _considering_ that his friend would ask him about work. Souji _always_ asks him about work.

Tired and fuzzy-headed, he decides to take the coward’s way out and sends yet another ambiguous, monosyllabic reply.

 

 **Yosuke:** yea

 

He snaps the phone shut and closes his eyes, unable to watch the text bubble show up in the thread like a glowing, pointed finger. He feels like a scolded child.

Still in the dark, sitting on the side of his bed, Yosuke leans forward and props his forehead against the heel of his hand. He doesn’t know what to _do._ Here he is, falling apart because his head is somehow hyperfixating on things he has _no desire whatsoever_ to keep thinking about. He should be disgusted, right? All of this – the dreams, the shower, the weird half-fantasy… _thing_ that happened to him in the classroom that afternoon – it should be making him uncomfortable, afraid. And he _is,_ but it’s not… it’s not for the reasons he knows (or thinks) he should be. He doesn’t understand anything right now. And on top of all everything that’s been happening he desperately wishes he could just _talk_ to his partner again. Souji is his commander, yes, but Souji is a solid fixture in Yosuke’s life in other, more personal ways, too. Souji is his friend, the best one he’s ever known, and regardless of how absolutely fucked the past week has been, Yosuke misses him. If he were losing his mind over anyone else he might even be able to ask Souji about it (maybe, possibly, hopefully). If it were anybody but Souji himself, maybe Yosuke could try and glean some insight from his friend’s unprecedented therapist skills, because Souji _always_ knows exactly what to say.

But no.

The only person Yosuke might have a chance at asking for advice is exactly the person that Yosuke is messed up about, and to try and broach the subject would only spell out certain doom. So he’s stuck. He’s stuck and he’s exhausted and he feels like he might be close to the point of breaking but he has no magic in his arsenal to make it all okay again. He can try to squash it down, to try and get his own shit together so that he can act normally around Souji again and pretend there was never a problem to begin with, but he knows, he _knows_ that Shadows have been born from less and even if he managed to pull it off the knowledge would still be _there._ He could hide it from Souji (or try to) but he’d never be able to hide it from himself. Catch-22.

So yeah. He’s stuck. He can’t fix himself without Souji’s help, he can’t fix his friendship with Souji _until_ he fixes himself, and all the while he’s left with nothing to grab onto for support to even keep his head above the water. He can’t even get a grip long enough to not act completely sketchy around Souji and keep his partner from suspecting something’s up. Because eventually Souji _will._ And then he’ll ask. And Yosuke will either have to keep lying – which Souji is bound to pick up on – or he’ll have to tell Souji the truth.

Yosuke thinks he’d rather face down his shadow again without any backup. At least his death would be quick.

And that’s something else to think about: Souji has _seen_ Jirya, has seen him and accepted him just as easily as he’d accepted Kanji and Naoto and everybody else’s shadows later on. Souji is far from a shallow person, so, theoretically, Souji would probably be alright with Yosuke suddenly having thoughts about another dude – that little bit of info alone wouldn’t be enough to break their friendship. It’s the rest of it that _might;_ Yosuke has no idea how Souji might take to hearing that Yosuke has pictured him naked, as unintentionally as it may have been. It’s not like he can just _ask._

For a second, Yosuke tries to imagine how the scenario would transpire, putting himself in Souji’s shoes to see how he himself might react. But it doesn’t work. He and Souji are too different, with Souji being quieter and more serene while Yosuke tends to be louder, more passionate, the less likely of the two of them to keep his own reactions in check. He doesn’t think he could ever even get _close_ to thinking like Souji does, not even if he genuinely tried. So he tries again, but switches instead to picturing _Souji_ being the one confessing to having dreams about _Yosuke_ and… _oh._

Yosuke has to take a deep, _sharp_ breath in to combat the way that thought knocks the air from his lungs. His heart rattles at the bars of his ribcage, pounding like he’s somehow run a marathon while sitting completely still. He digs his fingernails into the back of his own wrist to keep himself from slipping back in and following the daydream all the way to the end.

It scares him how badly he _wants_ to.

_I’m not gay._

Yosuke’s hands are shaking slightly around his phone as he opens it back up and goes back into his list of contacts, scrolling until he lands on Yukiko’s number.

 

 **Yosuke:** hey do u have ne pics from the pageant?

 

This is normal, right? This is what normal guys do. Straight, heterosexual, perfectly normal guys.            

(He absolutely _isn’t_ hoping that Yukiko has photos of Souji.)

His phone buzzes a few moments later, much sooner than he’d been expecting – though truth be told he’d almost been hoping she wouldn’t respond at all. She must not be helping at the inn tonight.

 

 **Yukiko-san:** I’m afraid I don’t. I’m sorry.

 

_Oh thank fuck._

He sends back a quick “np” and lets out a long, heavy exhalation. He’d asked – that was what mattered. He’d asked one of the hottest girls in town for pictures of more girls in swimsuits. That’s all. That was enough. The fact that part of him is _unfathomably_ relieved she’d said no is just because they’re all his friends and it’d be awkward. …Right?

But then, it had never seemed awkward to him before; not until after he’d started having whatever mental breakdown he’s currently still trying to work his way through. Not until after he’d started having weird, inexplicable dreams about his male best friend.

(He _absolutely hadn’t_ been hoping that Yukiko had photos of Souji.)

His phone buzzes yet again and another message from Yukiko flashes up across the screen.

 

 **Yukiko-san:** Did you ask Rise-chan? She took lots of photos of everyone backstage.

           

_Oh._

That’s right; Rise took pictures of _everybody –_ Naoto, the girls, _and_ the boys. Rise has selfies, has shots of Chie and Yukiko in their various outfits on her phone, has shots of Naoto before they were able to hide themself behind the stage curtain. Rise snapped photos of Yosuke, too, as well as Teddie and Kanji.

Rise has pictures of Souji.

(How easy would it be to ask her for them? How easy would it be to just text her right now and say “send me pageant pics” and not even necessarily specify. He could always just make the excuse of needing photos of the drag pageant because Teddie wanted them. Rise would do it, too. She’d do it and she probably wouldn’t even hesitate…)

Yosuke takes a harsh breath through his nose and grinds his teeth harder into his lip until he can taste the faintest hint of blood against the backs of his teeth.

_I’m not gay. I’m **not.**_

He brings his other hand up to clutch at his phone and types with both thumbs, jamming them into the keys so hard that it almost feels like bruises being left behind. He watches his hands instead of the screen, already too disgusted with himself for what he knows he’s writing to watch as the words begin to appear.

 

 **Yosuke:** nah thats ok

 **Yosuke:** y dont u send me a new 1 nsted? ;)

           

Yosuke snaps the phone shut so hard that he nearly smashes him own thumbnail between the screen and keyboard, still on the “send” button like lingering proof of his sins. He flings the accusing hunk of circuits and plastic away from himself across the comforter and brings his hands up to drag his fingers across his eyes. He wants to be okay with what he sent. He feels only rolling nausea instead – sea sick on dry land, with thick, guilty salt water pouring into his lungs with every choking breath.

He lays back down and curls up against the mattress like he’s just been kicked in the stomach, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He stays like that, with his face pressed into the sheets until his head feels fuzzy from the lack of oxygen, and eventually reaches up to grab a pillow and press it over the side of his head. He breathes as best he can around the obstruction, willing the spots behind his vision to go away and for the dull and steady creep of bile to slide back down his throat. _Please,_ he silently begs, though to whom he has no clue. _Just let this all be over already._

Somewhere, deep in the furthest part of his mind, there is a subtle shift – like the quiet stirring of something long dormant now coming fully back to life – and the low, echoing sound of a multi-layered voice chucking from just beyond the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title is taken from 'The Grey' by Icon For Hire.
> 
> Listen to the playlist on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/qr3jt923f3k6r9qxlt514mopm/playlist/7wqvOlmp9wxe8FT6B9pALQ) or [Youtube.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLo73OgaRqSRHtyrRk4R35il-_3b4supLS)
> 
> Like my work? Wanna geek out with me or buy me a coffee? Come and hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/DaemonSparks) or [tumblr](http://chroniccombustion.tumblr.com/)~


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